Inside there is a song
bringing him peace.
Outside there is a rose,
sweetening the breeze.

Inside there is a song,
a voice almost visible.
Outside there is a rose,
beauty without parallel.

Inside there is a song
sung to her alone.
Outside there is a rose
fresh still in the afternoon.

The rose’s blush reminds him
that hidden far below
her hardened pseudonym
lives the girl he aches to know.

The rose counsels,
find another beauty,
poppies or bluebells.
I will never be free.

Inside there is a song,
now a song of sorrows.
Outside there is a rose,
so late he came and chose.

Though she hide herself in briars,
interweave herself in thorns,
his love remembers
the rose is of the hawthorn.

Inside there a song!!!
How could love so err?
Outside there is a rose.
He becomes the agent provocateur.

A love so right he may not it disclaim
is yet so terribly wrong for her.
The rose bows in shame
at the forces he has set astir.

The song he sings to the flower,
his song to the red delicious rose,
hour by inhaling hour,
increases the debt he owes.

Though she hide in briars,
interweave herself in thorns,
her blush remembers
his love and mourns.


II
Inside there is a song
he sings for her sweet ear.
Outside there is a rose
loyal and severe.

Inside there is a song,
the finest one he knows.
Outside there is a rose
genus Virtuous Fortissimo.

Inside there is a song.
A solitary voice singing.
Outside there is a rose,
beauty graciously redeeming.

Inside there is a song,
bringing him surcease.
Outside there is a rose,
his soul’s new centerpiece.

Inside there is a song,
urges him on and on.
Outside there is a rose:
The red rose of Christendom.