A delicate rose perched on a bush,
her hand beneath her chin.
Her sigh froze dew drops in the air;
her patience was waning thin.

For she was awaiting Autumn—
he hadn’t visited in days—
and he had promised that he’d bring her
the sun’s sweetest golden rays.

But ‘twas Winter who had stolen Autumn
when he blew his chilling kiss;
the maiden: “Where art my Autumn dressed in white,
the lovely warmth I miss?”

Winter cloaked himself in velvet blue,
and his eyes were cold as ice;
the maiden: “Where art my Autumn’s tender passion,
his fragile warm device?”

The rose began to shrivel,
her bud began to decay:
“Have mercy, oh cold Winter;
please let my Autumn stay.”

But Winter merely stripped her
and ignored her wish to weep.
He listened to her last breath
as Autumn sang her to sleep.

Written by Hannah Butcher
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