When all the rest have long since bloomed and died;
And, quite alone, it turns toward the sun
While snow is drifting down the bleak hillside.
All its kin were sooner in their falling,
But this, the last, blooms on for long and long,
Till every bird has passed into the south
And, soft, one hears the threads of winter’s song --
The sad lament of those who do recall
That once their kind danced, vibrant in the sun;
And now the last, with courage, braves the wind
That strips each petal till the dance is done.
Every season brings this final flower,
The last of all its kind, it blooms too long –
Yet, while winter’s cloak will hush the valley,
Its petals falling, still it hears its song:
Harmonies recall each bloom which flourished.
Each note becomes a memory to keep
Until the music fades to perfect silence…
The last rose lapses gently into sleep.
Does it dream? Springtime is no more distant
Than dawn is far from midnight’s dreary worst.
If it dreams, it dreams of life’s beginning.
Where one was last, another will be first.
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