The Fading Roses Poetry Collection

On that Cold Hill Side

No birds sang, on that cold hill side

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing

Oh, woe betide!

The withering of a bird's wing

A lily and the fading rose

Softly lighten o'er your face

A hunter with his arrows and bows,

Slinks away without a trace

The best of dark and bright

And goes hunting in the night

Frozen pools that make your eyes

And smiles that win the heart,

Glint before starry skies

And depict the finest art

Still no birds sang, on that cold hill side,

The smile on your mouth tore

Oh, woe betide!

The bird's wing is no more.