If I think of a king at nightfall,
Of three men, and more, on the scaffold
And a few who died forgotten
In other places, here and abroad,
And of one who died blind and quiet
Why should we celebrate
These dead men more than the dying?
It is not to ring the bell backward
Nor is it an incantation
To summon the spectre of a Rose.

But we be too often distracted
Too busy to be, too tired to come
Ambitious angry and annoyed
Other places and purposes
even other states of being
entice our concentration.
In the temple garden we choose
between a white rose or red
When royal and deep blue
Indigo ought be chosen instead