Dora Sigerson Shorter
White rose must die all in the youth and beauty of the year,
Though nightingale should sing the whole night through,
Though summer breezes woo,
She will not hear.
Too delicate for the sun's kiss so hot and passionate,
Or for the rude caresses of the wind,
She drooped and pined—
They mourned too late.
Birds carol clear
'Summer has come,' they say,
'O joy of living on a summer's day!'
White rose must die all in the youth and beauty of the year.
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