A rose is a rose is a rose, said Gertrude Stein.
Which just goes to prove that a poet is a poet is a poet. Because what poet
doesn't talk about roses?
"O my Luve is like a red, red rose," said Bobby Burns. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," said Shakespeare. "They are not long, the days of wine and roses," said Ernest Dowson.
Dorothy Parker was more cynical. "Why is it no one ever sent me yet, One perfect limousine, do you suppose?" she groused. "Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get, One perfect rose."