It is not only man who is the lover of flowers, even the birds like nightingale are the fondest lovers of rose. When the rose blooms; its restlessness and impatience is worthy to be observed. It has aesthetic taste and aesthetic sense. It hovers round the flowers of rose just as the moth hovers rind the kindling candle. There is a sweet pathos in her sweet melodies. When time tolls the death-knell of a blooming flower; this poor creature migrates to mysterious and unknown region and thus it has received the name of a migratory bird, flying and soaring from one place to another in quest of blooming roses. Thus the world of nightingale is undoubtedly better than the world of human beings that is rife with sick-hurry, feverish activities, divided aims, hollow sighs and infection of mental strife. Attractive as the world looks to be, it can give us no real and lasting pleasure. All its joys are transitory and fleeting, only misery and grief are abiding here. There is no lasting peace of mind, no certainty of achievement or of retaining what one possesses. The world is full of pain and misery and disappointment and for these there is no cure. We have no clear-cut aims before us, no settled goal. We are merely at the mercy of circumstances which carry us to and fro in our ignorance. We are like an army fighting on a dark battlefield; filled with terror by false alarms and running in various directions without knowing where an asylum is.
To conclude, the rose has perfect harmony with human life and death. From the reception of the honourable guests to the departure of our dear ones to vastly halls of death; from the festive ceremonies to mournful rituals, from the graves to the altars of devotion, the rose is so blended in every sphere of human life that it cannot be separated from it. It is used as decorative symbols on happy occasions; its petals are scattered under the feet out of reverence; it is presented in the forms of nosegay to the heads of states; it is presented as gifts to our dear ones; its petals are scattered over the graves.
Man decomposes within the grave,
The rose withers on the grave.