SPECTATOR COMPETITION No. 212 Report by R. Kennard Davis
(II. A. C. EVANS) How strange to think that roses Have neither eyes nor noses, Whose beauty, as one gazes, Outshines the poet's praises; Whose colours, forms and sizes Are ever-new surprises; Whose fragrance on the breezes All human care appeases; So that each sad heart loses The pain of sorrow's bruises Each June, when God discloses The miracle of roses! (BRUCE PENMAN)
How strange to think that roses Have neither eyes nor noses,
And loveless bees have both—
Among the anthers prying,
From bloom to blossom flying,
To plight another's troth.
The butterflies know better; No missing senses fetter