by: Dr. Ghanim Samarrai
Again this morn thy rose came unto me,
A gentle envoy from the gates of dawn;
It bore the blush of daybreak on its tree,
And all the fragrant sweetness morning’s drawn.
And with it came those well-belovèd words:
“Good morning” – simple gifts, yet rich and rare;
They fall as lightly as the song of birds,
Yet linger longer than the summer air.
All through the day I bear them in my breast,
Like half-recalled sweet music heard afar,
Or sunlight dancing where the bright streams rest,
Or memory waking at the evening star.
But then – the silence comes with stealthy tread,
And lays its quiet kingdom over all;
Day gathers upon day, and hope, half-fed,
Still listens for the echo of thy call.
At last another rose appears once more,
As fair and fresh as any sent before;
Yet brief as dew that gems the morning floor,
It blooms, then leaves me longing all the more.
Dost thou not know what tender wrong thou dost?
What sweet disorder thou hast taught my heart?
For when I think thy gentle voice not lost,
Thou teachest hope – and then again depart.
Thou mak’st the guarded gates of feeling yield,
Then leav’st them open to the waiting breeze;
Thou wak’st the sleeping flowers of the field,
Yet vanishest before they bloom at ease.
And still I would not have thee other than
The gracious soul whose coming lights my days;
For brief thy visits be, yet more they span
Than many constant folk with duller ways.
Yet were I bold enough to ask one thing,
No rose I’d seek, however fair its hue;
No blossom burdened with the breath of spring –
I’d ask instead a little more of you.
Should I bold enough be to ask one thing,
No rose I’d seek, however fair its hue;
Stay but awhile – and let the daylight bring
A fuller day, made beautiful by you.
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