Copyright © Deborah M. Zajac. All Rights Reserved.
Roses by George Eliot
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!
I found the majority of Roses in my neighborhood just about done. Is it me or did they have their season early this year?
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