Nobody knows this little Rose --
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it --
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey --
On its breast to lie --
Only a Bird will wonder --
Only a Breeze will sigh --
Ah Little Rose -- how easy
For such as thee to die!
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
And I'd give rum, mint and lime For an hour of your time
Who knows if you'll think of me again
But I'll wonder how you are and, how, just, for one, short, second, you, made me feel real
Bethany Rose Stephens, 21, mostly confused graduate, cutting my teeth in the world of publishing. I don't tick all the boxes, but I mostly don't care. At best, here you will find occasionally articulate musings, at worst, horribly convoluted and pretentiously symbolic outcry. I have no delusions of grandeur, this is an outlet, not an opus.