At the dawn of the winter, the rose lies, hard-pressed
‘Gainst its crystalline coffin of snow.
It’s mid-summer splendor could never have guessed
Of the sharp biting winds it now knows.
The blood of the red seems quite stark in contrast
To the pale deadly white of the frost;
Yet the flair slips away from its full-flowered past
And the brilliance of summer is lost.
What once was immortal seems quite mortal indeed
As the soft summer rose passes on.
Whether delicate flower or lingering weed,
All are here for a time, then are gone.
Is love, then, condemned to such seasons of time-
To bloom then be crushed by the storm?
A rose is but earthly; true love is divine-
Eternal, unending and warm.
