A Man’s Grasp
Enclosed within a high-walled garden lost
In London is a rosebush robed in blooms
Of red and white. Each blossom is of white
And red. The beauty of these flowers looms
Both separately and chorus-like with those
Beside them in full green of leaves and thorns.
The difficulty is the distant pose
Of this display. Its positioning scorns
My lust to touch and smell the open buds,
Much less to ravish them, to pick them for
My wants. This flush is far beyond the thuds
Of rape that picking them would be. Implore
Hard circumstance I can, but still my need
Will be delayed. No harvest is agreed.