A lonely rose, grew in a garden
Of nothing but weeds and dust,
Its’ leaves were bent and willowed
And its’ stem the colour of rust.
It had never shown its’ true form,
Till one day early in the spring,
When to this dirty unkempt garden
A small child would bring;
An offering of a pale, a spade
And a bright red hook,
Then to this plot of ground
She began to make it look;
More like a plant of beauty,
Of proud and pretty ways,
Of times she would remember:
Times of her younger days.
But the plant was not to be hurried,
For it did not bloom till late that year
And then one, but only one
Clean white rose, did appear.
Written for Jacqueline (Jacki) QUINN (1969-1970)
Of nothing but weeds and dust,
Its’ leaves were bent and willowed
And its’ stem the colour of rust.
It had never shown its’ true form,
Till one day early in the spring,
When to this dirty unkempt garden
A small child would bring;
An offering of a pale, a spade
And a bright red hook,
Then to this plot of ground
She began to make it look;
More like a plant of beauty,
Of proud and pretty ways,
Of times she would remember:
Times of her younger days.
But the plant was not to be hurried,
For it did not bloom till late that year
And then one, but only one
Clean white rose, did appear.
Written for Jacqueline (Jacki) QUINN (1969-1970)
