Roses have a finite life:
They’ll wither at a glance.
Bluebirds, too, will flit away
If given half a chance.
The world, so used to suns that set,
May look on ours askance;
But take my hand, and through the dew
Eternally we’ll dance.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment