Letter From My Old Student

 My Dearest Sham Ji,

Do you remember the poem you taught me when I was in tenth class? I still carry it with me—like a bookmark pressed between the pages of my growing-up years. One of them was “Go, Lovely Rose.”

You began by telling me that this was Edmund Waller’s best-known poem, and that it shines because of its structural unity and symbolic depth. You spoke so gently, so passionately, and I—oh, I was all ears, soaking in every single word like soft rain on thirsty soil.

You said the poem was written in the mid-17th century, when ideals of courtly love floated through poetry like perfumed air. To be honest, Sham Ji, back then, I didn’t quite grasp why the poet used “thee” and “thou.” It sounded old, distant. But when you said those words, they felt intimate—almost like secrets whispered between close friends.

It wasn’t until I studied English in my MA that I truly understood. But even now, when I read that ABAB rhyme scheme or trace the lyrical grace of the poem, I hear your voice. I hear you.

You said the commanding mood runs through the poem, with the rose sent forth like a gentle messenger. I remember how you paused, looked at my face, and said, “The poet urges a young woman to recognise her beauty and accept admiration before time steals it away.”

Why did you pause, Sham Ji? Why did you look at me just then? That moment stayed with me—like a rose pressed in a book, its fragrance lingering long after the petals have dried.

You went on, explaining how beauty’s worth is tied to being seen, and how the poem carries a subtle urgency: “Beauty from the light retired” has “small is the worth.” And then, the closing stanza—so tender, so true—about the fleeting nature of all things rare and sweet.

Sham Ji, your words echo in my heart even now. You made poetry feel alive, like it was breathing just for us. I admired you so much back then—your calm, your clarity, your quiet passion. You made me fall in love with literature. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit with you, too.