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The Seasons

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My love was like the Spring,
A gay and vibrant thing.
Twirling and whirling,
She danced upon the breeze.

Then she was the Summer,
Her heart a stalwart drummer,
Rapping and tapping,
Against the rhythm of time.

Too soon she was the Fall,
Withering and tiring,
She relished life’s charms,
But feared the angels’ call.

Now she is the Winter,
Barren and still.
Death lingers beside her,
Buts acts only at her will.

To me,
She is a rose,
God’s fairest bloom.
Rooted among the lilies,
Far from any tomb.

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