Out of this basket a bright bouquet
Of orange fire like flowers flamed
Each day at dusk in days of old.
Now only the rose of rust remains,
Whose parched petals peel away
And fall to the floor in russet flakes
The next strong wind will sweep away.
Of orange fire like flowers flamed
Each day at dusk in days of old.
Now only the rose of rust remains,
Whose parched petals peel away
And fall to the floor in russet flakes
The next strong wind will sweep away.
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