The Rose

Far in the distant past,
Long time past,
Lived a Frenchwoman of great virtue,
Of great beauty,
Of great splendor,
Many men courted her,
But she refused them all,

So great was her beauty,
She attracted King Henry,
He shut her in a maze of roses,
Yet she would not consent,

She pined away,
Weeping for France,
her eternal beloved,

The King wrote her many sonnets,
Many poems,
She refused every one.
Into her breast she plunged a dagger,
And unto the ground her blood did spill,

On that scarlet ground grew a red rose,
Upon seeing the rose,
The King did weep,
He forbade any to remove it,

France regained her fortunes,
But lost her fair maiden of virtue.

The End.