The Whispering Rose
The Whispering Rose
By Arvil Jones, Ph.D.
The aged but gifted poet
From a far and distant time
Strolled sad and slow through flowering fields
He was searching for a rhyme
The words will surely come he mused
Yet many years had passed
And not one line had he composed
Is my gift quite gone? He asked.
Perhaps if I but pause and rest
Sweet words my mind shall fill
I must not worry, fret nor groan
But bid my soul be still
So there amidst wildflowers bright
No other soul around
With prayerful heart and hope renewed
He lay upon the ground.
Soft breezes made the blades of grass
To dance with joyful grace
They played among the flowers fair
And swept across his face
In quiet slumber long He’d lay
And rest his weary frame
But wait! What’s this? His heart replied
Did someone call his name?
Nay, but it cannot be, he said
For no one else is near
‘Tis but the sound of rustling leaves
That fall upon my ear
But now the soft voice came again
And many voices more
From whence they came he could not tell
And yet could not ignore.
The breeze had now ceased blowing
Not a leaf moved on the trees
Then at his feet he beheld a sight
That made him bend his knees
It could not be true, and yet it was
Down there among the clover
The lilies and the daffodils
Were laughing with each other
I’ve gone quite mad, the poet cried
It’s just a childish dream
I’m wise enough to know that things
Aren’t always what they seem
Surely God would not allow
That mindless flowers should talk
If it were so, then rocks might grow
And the great Sequoias walk.
Have all my senses grown so dull
Or am I so racked with fear
That I’d mistake one drop of dew
On this tulip for a tear?
Again I must lie down and rest
And sleep in sweet repose
But before his eyelids closed he spied
One tiny, blood-red rose.
Ah yes, he laughed, could not be wrong
To gaze on this a while
And then he saw its petals move
As if to form a smile
He leaned a little closer now
With trembling hand, and weak
Then soft as a timid angels sigh
The rose began to speak.
I know your troubled thoughts, it said
And how its been so long
Your soul has searched for words that rhyme
For the lines of some sweet song
Your prayers have all been heard above
Your quest is nearly done
You’ll have your very heart’s desire
Ere the set of tomorrow’s sun.
Fear not, kind Sir, reach down your hand
And pluck with gentle care
For the one you cherish waits to fix
My petals in her hair
The journey we must make today
Is treacherous and long
Please tarry not a moment more
Arise, let us be gone
Oh hasten now and stop for naught
Except it be to pray
For my fragrance will but last until
The dawn of one more day.
So with lightened heart and quickened step
And his treasure newly found
To him it seemed his tired old feet
Now barely brushed the ground
The Eastern sky was greying now
Faint shadows crept along
He caught the sound of a whip-poor-will
Then the larks began their song.
The distance mattered not at all
Nor yet the evening’s chill
O’er mountains steep, ‘cross meadows wide
Though tired, he journeyed still
The sun was hastening Westward now
And he had yet miles to go
He dared not stop to ponder now
For his steps were getting slow.
But yonder in the distance
At long last now he sees
And old familiar cottage
Nestled under tall oak trees
And now across the narrow stream
A hundred paces more
Then up the little winding path
He stood in her open door.
In the candle’s glow he viewed her face
Sweet countenance bathed in Heaven’s grace
Now in her tender hand he’ll place
The tiny rose, and plead his case
The rhyming words for which he’d searched
Now came with greatest ease
And gathering all his courage up
He bowed there at her knees.
Accept this tiny gift, my love
I pray, refuse it not
To bring it here has taken nearly
All the life I’ve got
This rose I offer with my heart
With not a blush of shame
I know God grew this rose for you
For I heard it speak your name.
And then with stars all smiling down
Beneath the pale moon’s crest
She smelled and kissed the tiny rose
And drew him to her breast
Content at last, all strength now gone
His soul in rapture’s deep
One soft embrace, one gentle kiss
And the poet went to sleep.
Then quick the shining Seraphs flew
To bear his soul up high
Above the clouds and far beyond
The realm of Earth and sky
On through the garnished gates he passed
As silver bells did ring
He knelt before the throne to touch
The scepter of the King.
And then a whisper, soft but near
Who’s this? Ah yes, he knows
For fixed in the braids of her golden hair
Are the petals of a rose.
Arvil Jones
