She chose narcissus, white and cold,
Creamy garland to enfold—
Placing it upon her breast,
Drunk on Beauty's lofty crest—
Naught did see but Love's desire,
Virgin dreams on wild-rose briar.
Sweetest daisy, plucked of leaves,
Fortune's wheel conferred, it weaves:
With her Northman passions whirled,
As pinkish petals lay unfurled.
Kindled embers, madness feigned—
Beauty bright so quickly stained.
Green stems strewn, blossom lost;
Cradle rocked one winter's frost.
Darling Rose, how came you here?
Life has thorns, I now do fear!
What have I to do with thee,
My Guinevere Rosalee?
On pillow's dew Sweet Guin woke,
Gasping from black nightshade's choke;
Heart was pierced, nigh three springs old—
Mother dear, you never told!
Stinging nettles did she wade,
As blisters oozed in deepest shade.
Gray school walls her sole embrace;
Searching black swans for the face.
Bindweed grasped, pale-rose stymie;
Mother's milk, narcotic poppy;
Heartsease gathered, bent stems thrust;
Love-in-a-mist, obscured trust;
Marigold, her joy full-jeer;
Dragon's mouth snaps; speedwell's leer;
Forget-me-not with spotted eye;
One petal fell—Narcissi!
What have I to do with thee?
Sighed Guinevere Rosalee.
Seven's twain, the Fates decreed,
Succored by finagled greed,
That Rosalee, still draped in dew,
Bonds of flesh and blood renew.
'Twixt grief and joy in zephyr-sky,
Thistledown to Life's cast die–
Motherland fades to mother's face,
Alchemy's bewitching trace.
But summer's saffron-tinted glare
Quickly burnt through folly's snare:
Clasping mirror in the sun,
She kissed white cheeks, one by one;
Silky ribbons, frock so fine,
Jeweled pockets, dark mulled wine.
For I have seen, my Rose, forsooth,
Your fetching ways and glowing youth—
What have I to do with thee,
My Guinevere Rosalee?
Hummingbird in fragrant pine,
Nutbrown wrens on leafy vine;
Through mountain firs did west wind dart,
Infiltrating Sweet Guin's heart.
She gathered roses, crimson red;
Rosehips lush, born of true love's bed;
Two times blessed, her footsteps traced;
Soul fulfilled and Eden-graced.
Then desperate pleading pierced the air—
Come hither, stroke my silver hair!
Wrapped in faded shroud of mystery,
Truths were voiced at death's periphery;
But silenced tongue in palsy's grip
Failed response to fervid quip.
Merging tears fell on gray-white lace,
As blue eyes searched her daughter's face—
What is it I mean to thee,
My Guinevere Rosalee?