In the bliss of the morning,
Dew glistened upon my rose;
Petals were wide embracing
The day as the sun arose.

Stretching within the day's light,
Simple joys are for my rose.
No turbulence within sight:
An oath of bright tomorrows.

Gentle touches of the wind
Sway the petals of my rose.
Yet the wind does not offend
The fluttering of sparrows.

As the last light glowed faintly,
Whips of wind shuddered my rose.
The storms poured wet misery—
The sparrows—now cackling crows!

What had once been a soft sight
Is pessimistic morose.
What once was tender delight
Now holds true to a false pose.

My rose is morose.
Morose is my rose.