Come winter, there is no
need for gardens here; not their
riotous profusion, nor their
endless, tender care
Instead, the beds lie
barren now, forgotten
Their dew slicked leaves
limp from frost ; those heavy
Blossoms fallen
The bustling insects
that sang so sweetly
through endless summer evenings
all but a memory, and gone
need for gardens here; not their
riotous profusion, nor their
endless, tender care
Instead, the beds lie
barren now, forgotten
Their dew slicked leaves
limp from frost ; those heavy
Blossoms fallen
The bustling insects
that sang so sweetly
through endless summer evenings
all but a memory, and gone
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