the folly of being comforted

O heart! O heart! If she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted.

w.b yeats

a white rose

The red rose whispers of passion
And the white rose breathes of love
O the red rose is a falcon
And the white rose is a dove

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal lips
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips

John Boyle O'Reilly