Our garden green, so rich and fair,
Lies grey, its senses all asleep:
A dewy rose of youth’s fresh morn
Is crushed, her gentle beauty torn,
And all the florets for her weep.

The ones that only know her face
May well have lost their oldest friend;
Whilst those who’ve lost a dear loved one,
Whose hearts today are ripped undone,
Are struck by wounds that ne’er can mend.


Frail spring grass trembles in the wind
That chills the air beneath the sun
Which shines to mourn a precious one:
For that sweet rose may be forever gone,
But in our hearts and in our souls

     she shall live on.