A rose gave up her secret
  Of its origin – of its beauty –
In the shadow of her crescent –
  Fiercely hushed once to me.

She told me of a plan of love
  And a Master Gardener who
Has a touch of silver that betrothed
  The rose to the morning dew

And described a plane in between
  Nothing and a foundation –
The design of which is unbreached –
  That lies in an unmeasured dimension

But her exact words were lost
  To the enjambment of my memory –
Moreover – my comprehension lapsed –