A rose to meet the morning bright,
to grow in cheer,
to gather life.
Yet day to day
the rose does wither,
day to day the rose does wither,
lost
beneath the foggy dreary.
Lost.
Beneath.
How is a rose to gather
honey sweet
from deep blue trees?
How is a rose to grow
in the dark
of uncaring
life?
How is a rose to grow?
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