Withered On the Grass

How I loved my pretty rose so fragrant in the sun, In those butterscotch hours when time was young, And the obsidian nights were made for dreaming, Long before the sunset, when birds were screaming! Withered upon grass it laid, gone in one moment, And memory lingers like a lovely shadow of scent, My pretty rose so mulberry hued before the fall, Living but a season, could it have lived at all? Indeed it must have, for it has ever followed me, And colored my marmalade days in memory of beauty!