Ah, fair Juliet!
Would a ROSE smell as sweet if we called it Daisy? A Marigold? An Iris? A Poppy? Or perhaps, more fittingly, the Morning Glory?
Is not the name, the vision, the smell and the voice of the rose's very existence an expression of the very name by which it is called?
Consider the Rose.
It rises singularly so that all may gaze upon it. And in same manner by which it has emerged, we exclaim, Behold! It has now
A Rose!
The rose reveals itself in small increments, capturing our attention and wonder, purposefully and suggestively that all may enjoy the grandeur of its revealing.
Lo! It has blossomed! The rose bud has burst forth it's earthly shell and stands in full array! Come smell the fragrance of the rose. Is there a smell more fragrant? More fitting? Is it not but fit for this most highly blessed of flowers? Does the symbol of the rose not appear in all manner of ceremony?
Holy matrimony as well as lying our loved ones beneath this earth into their rest? Is not the garland and wreath of it laid upon the victor's and conqueror's shoulders?
Do not queens and maidens alike await its arrival on the day of love? Why then, by the name of Rose is it called?
Because it has risen-and notwithstanding earthly thorns-the labor pains of its very birthing. Nay, fair Juliet, I fear thy words unwise! A rose by any other name would smell not nearly so sweet!