Amid the Roses

There is tropical warmth and languorous life Where the roses lie In a tempting drift Of pink and red and golden light Untouched as yet by the pruning knife. And the still, warm life of the roses fair That whisper "Come," With promises Of sweet caresses, close and pure Has a thorny whiff in the perfumed air. There are thorns and love in the roses' bed, And Satan too Must linger there; So Satan's wiles and the conscience stings, Must now abide--the roses are dead.