The Last Rose

            Brisk as a winter hare I gave away
            my heart to you and plucked the rose, the last
            blooming before night became burning day.
            First you spurned then you turned, it was too fast,
            perhaps a pain still haunted from your past.
            I cursed myself, believed I had to bid
            you farewell, but you fell, downhill you slid.
            I saw then the winter rose you had pinned
            in your hair, and I called out but you hid,
            brisk as dancing snow driven by the wind.