The things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.—2 Corinthians, 5: 18.
I stood before a rosebush. It was June,
The mother-month of roses. Overhead,
Experimenting with his happy tune,
A robin flitted near his leafy shed.
Roses still blooming in their beauteous prime,
Roses forlorn, and torn by age and weather,
And rosebuds eager for their own glad time,
With bursting vests, were on the bush together.
