White rose peeps, weeps too purely, br while red shows scarlet sins, br subjectivism’s surely br a set of moral gins. br br Yet an orange rose shows gaily, br a ball of fire and flame, br but when it blows away we br may ask - “what’s in a name? ” br br Both white and red demurely br like angels sit on pins br and needles - immaturely br lapelled ere bloom begins; - br br But an orange! rows of trees we br plant carefully and claim br the orange rose to tease, - see br love came to play the game. br br Though passion in a fashion br attracts at Valentine's br true love one should not ration br to sprightly Columbines. br br Some send bud blood, cream, peachy, br flush plush on petal tips, br with a dress from Nina Ricci br and a wallet full of tips, br br I, eyeing orange grandeur, br from red, white, thorny, change, - br chromatic spectrum's splendour br finds preconceptions strange br br as love to true beholder br no colours sees but stream br whose energies true hold a br soul's music, tender dreams. br br Poor falcon wings so lonely, br no rhyme therewith we find, br and as for love there's only br above glove, dove, - shove signed! br br That red rose wings like falcon, br that white dove rhymes with love, br may colour poets' balcon br -y pruned by critic's glove, br br yet an Orange rose flamboyant br leaves red, white, in the shade, br its petals bright flame, buoyant br of such are poems made...