TRANSITION
The rose leaves fall on Summer’s pulsing breast,In crimson showers they’re lightly blown along;The south winds rock the blue bird’s dainty nestFilled to the brim. Glad is the streamlet’s song.An empty nest sways on a leafless bough;Hushed is the gurgling laughter of the stream;And by the garden path a folded roseShuts closely in its heart an unborn dream.Beth Slater Whitson.
The rose leaves fall on Summer’s pulsing breast,In crimson showers they’re lightly blown along;The south winds rock the blue bird’s dainty nestFilled to the brim. Glad is the streamlet’s song.An empty nest sways on a leafless bough;Hushed is the gurgling laughter of the stream;And by the garden path a folded roseShuts closely in its heart an unborn dream.Beth Slater Whitson.
The rose leaves fall on Summer’s pulsing breast,In crimson showers they’re lightly blown along;The south winds rock the blue bird’s dainty nestFilled to the brim. Glad is the streamlet’s song.
The rose leaves fall on Summer’s pulsing breast,
In crimson showers they’re lightly blown along;
The south winds rock the blue bird’s dainty nest
Filled to the brim. Glad is the streamlet’s song.
An empty nest sways on a leafless bough;Hushed is the gurgling laughter of the stream;And by the garden path a folded roseShuts closely in its heart an unborn dream.
An empty nest sways on a leafless bough;
Hushed is the gurgling laughter of the stream;
And by the garden path a folded rose
Shuts closely in its heart an unborn dream.
Beth Slater Whitson.
Beth Slater Whitson.