With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses
I saw Lord Buddha towering by my gate
Saying: “Once more, good youth,
I stand and wait.”
Saying: “I bring you my fair
Law of Peace
And from your withering passion full release;
Release from that white hand that stabbed
you so.
The road is calling. With the wind
you go,
Forgetting her imperious disdain
Quenching all memory in the sun and rain.”
“Excellent Lord, I come. But
first,” I said,
“Grant that I bring her these twelve
roses red.
Yea, twelve flower kisses for her rose-leaf
mouth,
And then indeed I go in bitter drouth
To that far valley where your river flows
In Peace, that once I found in every rose.”