Poem Hunter
Wilting Rose
(22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824 / London, England)

Wilting Rose

A seed I am.
A seed I was.
Look how I have grown in natures splendor!

Leaves of crimson touch my breast,
as the colors of autumn devour me so.
I open to breathe the air of scented musk,
only to find my petals are fading.

The wind would whisper,
Fade little rose.
Fade into that nightly dusk,
and never recall your present state again.

With such insanity sung to me,
I had bloomed my existence,
I had bloomed my death.

The wind would whisper,
Wilt little rose,
wilt into the hands of your stem,
and never gaze to the suns rays again.

Another seasons wind whispered.
Another petal fell, and another.
Then I fell to the frost kissed ground,
but look!
A bud was left where I did stand.

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Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

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