His Rose

You are beautiful, but you are empty. One could not die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But in herself she matters more than all of you together, since it is she that I watered; since it is she that I placed under the glass dome; since it is she that I sheltered with the screen; since it is she whose caterpillars I killed (except the two or three we saved up to become butterflies). Since it is she that I listened to, when she complained, or boasted, or when she was simply being silent. Since it is she who is my rose.

The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry