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It Will Wilt
A rose is rose ‘til it withers near cill;
Feathering through the wind like ribbon’s lace.
But with time as its generous mirr’,
The pedals age and wrinkle face to face.
Like a widow who was battered and bowed,
She fades to grey undermining the whey.
When her leaves have parched and her seeds are stowed,
The days are behind when beauty oft’ lay.
Does not purpose lie in roots of this bud?
Is life short lived for all roses in bloom?
No notice to seeds that fall soil with thud;
They will tremble to death choked by their doom.
Nay!- with a kiss of light and drop of dew,
A rose- cill tradition- will spring like new.