Thorny fingers of the Rose
Clutch at tilted rotting timbers.
Wilted flowers perching pose
For attention there they linger.
Yet no jaunting love admires
Nor any bird is heard to sing -
The full maturity of Autumn
Has effaced all hues of Spring.
Once vivaciously abloom, alas,
Now melancholy stays.
Yearning eyes will wander, lost
In the Garden of Dismay.