There are roses on the wall and climbing,
To the dark of midnight, light of sun;
There are flowers falling in the garden,
Though throbbing, brazen summer’s not yet done.
There is darkness coming with the turning
Of the year, the guns already blaze,
And leaf pyres in the field already burning;
The acrid taste smoke in morning’s haze.
There are roses climbing through the roof beams,
And tangled honeysuckle, berried-black,
The pretty path is harder than it first seems,
And the truth is, you can never take it back.