With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses

I saw Lord Buddha towering by my gate

Saying: “Once more, good youth, I stand and wait.”

Saying: “I bring you my fair Law of Peace

And from your withering passion full release;

Release from that white hand that stabbed you so.

The road is calling. With the wind you go,

Forgetting her imperious disdain —

Quenching all memory in the sun and rain.”

“Excellent Lord, I come. But first,” I said,

“Grant that I bring her these twelve roses red.

Yea, twelve flower kisses for her rose-leaf mouth,

And then indeed I go in bitter drouth

To that far valley where your river flows

In Peace, that once I found in every rose.”