TO
ROSEMARY
A
rich red rose is beauty rare,
Made
up for joy with Nature's care.
The
dewdrops, glistening in the sun,
Stand
out like diamonds, every one.
But
all too soon the roses fade,
And
leave dead blossoms' black decay.
The
base stems, baring studded thorn,
Show
clearly all their passing morns.
So
too, at last, all life must leave,
And
Spring joy turn to Winter's grieve.
All
feeble conceits shall be done,
And
lie like rudest dust, each one.
This I might identify as my 'first real poem.' It is certainly a bit overwrought and clunky, as one might expect from a teen in high school. It is dedicated to my first cat, Rosemary, that I had since Fourth Grade. It has been rewritten several times. One time Nanny, my grandmother, borrowed it to use in a eulogy at one of her friends' funeral, which I found rather embarrassing. She had asked me to write some poetry for the ocassion, but I was stuck since I had not known the lady and didn't know what to say about her. But Nanny was insistent that something must be had. So quite early I compromised whatever artistic principles I might have had.
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