Saturday, 2 December 2006



I put out my hand and plucked a rose,
A red satin rose with a velvet scent,
And chaliced its loveliness in reverent palms,
Knowing that it was perfect.

Then, because I could not make the rose,
And because I could not paint the rose,
Nor carve it, nor mould it,
Nor even draw its beauty in my words,
I slowly closed my fingers over it
And crushed it.

Ruth Ellison

1 comment:

pre raphaelite Leonie said...

beautiful. i remember reading this poem as Avery young woman.i have often thought abouts its beauty .how it all ways reminded me of how people some people try to control others to mold them to there will, their way of doing or thinking or even how they would like, would want the other partner ,person to look or be, and because they cannot change them into the ways they want they slowly close their hands around their love an crush them...