THE BEAST SPEAKS

Oh, foolish merchant! Driven by the storm,
you found the door and begged a place to rest.
You only sought a room kept dry and warm,
but unseen servants gave you all my best.
And now you see me! Do not fear my form,
though you have not behaved well as a guest.

Yes, blood as red as roses stains my hands
as I return, at midnight, from the chase,
down torchlit halls to where the mirror stands;
root of my magic, flower of this place.
My mirror shows all times, all seas and lands.
But, though I beg, it will not show my face.

Beauty and magic are my consolations,
distractions for a dusty, hollow heart.
Amid my roses and my incantations,
in these dark, haunted woods I dwell apart.
No awkward tears can mar my meditations,
for tears are turned to roses by my art.

So many roses in my garden grow,
but none an idle traveler might take;
their vines have grown around me, and I know
the thorns of every blossom that I make--
all part of me. I could not let them go.
But one I’ll give you, just for beauty’s sake.