The flower, for her prince, bedecks herself
In soft array of sweetest hues, withholds
Her charms until the time has come to bloom
In exchange for rings and things of gold.
The prince, convinced his worth deserves her not,
And that she is alone his own great love,
Withholds his charms alike for coming spring
And lives convinced his honor is enough.
But 'tis a foul deception on her part:
The thorns that grow along her stem have claimed
Her for themselves, and princes must beware--
The thorns beneath the petals must remain.
O little prince, who diligently strives
To maintain worth in gardens full of dread,
Move forward with your suit and offer love,
For thorns, if faced with love, are stricken dead.
She folds herself in beauty, guarded, held
To faithfulness by unashamed power.
She waits for knighted strength, as in her court
She rests a rarity among the flowers.
postscript
Anyone detecting St. Exupery here? A mixture of that and Psalm 45.