The Circle
           by Sarah Elizabeth Hume

    Let the sleeping roses lie,
    under deep blankets
    of cold silver stars.

    For they know not
    that the emerald fields are lost.
    That the sun is frozen 
    in misty veils of pearl.

    Let them drift in reverie,
    in crystal shrouds
    and icy graves.

    Dusty memories blown away.

    And when their seeds are lit
    with summer's flame,
    and rooted in the grainy earth,
    all that will have seemed in vain
    will flourish in the end.