A rose in sprout, so delicate and fair,
Its petals murmur in the air,
A delicate touch, a fragrant effortlessness,
A marvel time can't eradicate.
With colors strong or pale and timid,
It comes to toward the open sky,
An image of both love and torment,
In delight and distress, it will remain.
Its thistles might penetrate, its aroma might call,
A rose, perpetually, stands tall.
In gardens splendid, or wild and free,
The rose is nature's song.
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