A Rose o’er My Lover

If ever your pink lips yawned,

widening to accept a kiss,

it would not be, as to this,

flower opening with the dawn.

You are not drops of rain,

that the night winds left behind,

for in these tears, I will find,

joy, and in your smile, pain.

A tongue stings deeper than a bee,

nails cut wider than a thorn,

All your torments I have born,

but still; I prefer this plant to thee. 

Lover, know your lover's tone,

And the secrets of the light,

for though you rule with Cupid's might,

a flower takes from you your throne.