Dead Flowers

Ah, dead flowers, I weep for you! All your leaves brown, your stems broken and dead. Soon the frost will come, all that is left of ye who once so gloriously bloomed, is done, the last tender bud black and crisp, Ah dead flowers, I weep for you! Winter comes, summer is past, death is coming. The wind whistles, the branches of the weeping willow rattle like the bones of old skeletons on a long death-march to the grave, the sky is gray and bleak. Soon all will be white with snow, ah, dead flowers, I weep for you! Under a blanket white and cold, feathery soft, you will sleep, a long rest. The winter will pass---sleep little flowers, for the spring soon will come, all will now die, but to be reborn. Ah, dead flowers, I rejoice for you!