Poetry

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How fast the petals droop and swoon
Upon the verdant ground,
When once the blushing rose has bloomed
And worn its jeweled crown.

How soon returns the Winter's pall,
The icy sea of glass,
That holds the realm of life enthralled
And seals it in the past.

And yet, beneath the placid flow
The seed, now hid'n away,
Lies waiting with the fallen snow
For resurrection day.

In death the seed gains yet a spark,
Though burried in the grave,
And budding even in the dark
Shall spring forth bold and brave.

And then, amid eternal Spring,
At last, at last we'll see
That nothing God has done is vain,
But will forever be.

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