One Perfect Rose
by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
      All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet —
      One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
      “My fragile leaves,” it said, “his heart enclose.”
Love long has taken for his amulet
      One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
      One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
      One perfect rose.

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