A Bed of Dying Roses

A bed of slowly dying roses, wan
With paucity of prickles, bright and young
Lay dry, gorging on tears that fall upon
The earth, but suddenly a maiden sung

And with her gentle voice that rose above
The clouds, white stags most swift and soft and lithe
The roses, dead, arose with strengthened love
Like Spring’s first blush, most fair and warm and blithe

And then the fair-voiced maiden fled to night
Away across the moon and the gold sun
And now the roses stand tall with red pride
The fair-voiced maiden knows her deed she’s done

And whenever blossoms are dying black
Frail and faint under death’s tattered wing
The maiden of love, o, she will come back
And with the voice of love, once more she’ll sing…