An Inkling of Poetry: Black Leaf

Now there is such a thing as a white Rosa. But a white rose by any other name cannot be a rose. For what's in the name of a Rose but that which depicts its tenderness: Petals strewn all over the passage way's floors, scents filling the air with fragrances and the colour white scattered all over the void of colourlessness. While Rosa was her name and I chose to call her such as be feats such exquisite and tender beauty; even though hers was not a Rose. But hers was as tender as one; delicate, soft hued and quaint.

When Autumn leaves are falling And Autumn's child crestfallen I will rise says the Lord And raise my Scythe And cut with the Plow The untouched grounds To sow anew a seed A seed that's due indeed When the winter rises The storehouse he decides it He shall go and seek The harvest of the yester season The threshold of Gladness Which the Lord of the harvest Bringeth forth anew The refreshing of the many and the few