A rambling rose, though it has great beauty
Would never be my choice--my goal,
But to the rose, steadfast in stature,
I could lend my heart, my soul.
I would never trust the uncertain rambler
To give it's beauty only to me.
I would fear there would be many others
Receiving the beauty just as free.
Would it remain within my yard,
Or, would it travel o'er the fence?
Would it's beauty lure my neighbor?
My anxiety would reign intense.
The rose which grows as a standing bush
Has a loveliness greater by far.
As, in my garden, it remains ever firm,
It's beauty may be viewed from afar.
Some women are like that rambling rose,
So they climb right over the family fence.
Some very openly, as everyone knows,
But others hide behind a false pretense.
I wanted a rose which would never ramble
So I chose one, both lovely and true.
Not one which would prance and gambol,
Or, disappear like the morning dew.
So lovely, the blossoms of the rose I chose,
So faithful, so loving and tenderly kind.
So happy am I that my joy overflows,
And, through the years has never declined.
My rose has remained in the family fence,
With beauty for the passers by to see,
But her actions speak with such eloquence,
That her beauty is for her children---and me.
By L. B. Strawn
February 27, 1993
& August 13, 1995