When two young rosebuds blushingly endeavor
To kiss they must harmoniously agree
To wait, with pursing lips, until whenever
Conspiring winds will let caresses be.
It wouldn't do for a swashbuckling thorn
To rend a bloom or tear a tender leaf.
There should be nothing for them both to mourn,
And nothing to make tears stream out in grief.
We, like the rosebuds, nodded once to kiss.
As sweethearts, like them, parted from embrace.
And lest we share our pain and not our bliss
We must part now with seasonable grace:
Part with a thousand kisses, all in rhyme,
With love to waft us on the winds of time.
Copyright Anissa Nedzel Gage 1990
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