I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
I sometimes think that never blows so red The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; That every Hyacinth the Garden wears Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water blows.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories