Friday, October 19, 2012

A Rose By Eleanor Pederson Hilleman

 I looked at a rose called midnight
and asked that it might stay
lovely with soft-shaded velvet,
But it whispered: "There comes a day
when the sun beats down in its fury
and the mighty winds do blow,
And then comes the time and the season
when I, like the rest, must go;
But I leave with you my fragrance-
A memory, pure and sweet-
And you can be sure I am with you
As my petals lie at your feet."