Woman, may I compare you to a rose?
The rose is short.
You are tall.
The rose is narrow.
You are shapely.
The rose stands still.
You move, you are liquid grace.
Hope is a dangerous affair.
It lifts our chins up,
And can spur us on to brave deeds,
But it keeps our eyes fixed on faraway clouds,
Distracting us from our precious present.
The traveler who gapes at the distant peaks,
Does not see the lovely flowers alongside the road.