There's in the air a scenting of sorrow,
A rosebud has fallen to earth,
And oh what a pity dear rosebud,
Death overtook you in birth.
The thorns must abide on the branches,
The flowers still stick to the stem,
And both do lend an appearance,
But thou thine own way must bend.
The blackened and much soggy ground leaves,
The fresh fallen rose bud adorn,
For black is the color of sorrow,
A loss mother nature doth morn.
A squadron of marching rose beetle,
On trampling the fallen new bud,
Grieves at the loss of a blossom,
Fallen face down in the mud.
- G. Mark Trimble
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