Like a boy with a bouquet of flowers I hold more hearts than my hands can bear. Flowers arrayed with outward beauty begging to be taken, no sooner chosen do they wilt over my fingers. True love seeks the rose with thorns; such a rose cannot be taken by the impulsive and heartless. I would trade these dandy lions for true loves petals, but where to lay the trophies of my poor discernment? The winds of life have blown the vanity away and left me with white unfeeling faces. If only her red countenance would smile upon me again, that perennial gaze of deep rose love.