The Yellow Rose
Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.
The song I read, the book I close,
And fling away the yellow rose.
No matter! Always, East and West,
Will yellow roses still be pressed.
Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.
The song I read, the book I close,
And fling away the yellow rose.
No matter! Always, East and West,
Will yellow roses still be pressed.
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.
The song I read, the book I close,
And fling away the yellow rose.
No matter! Always, East and West,
Will yellow roses still be pressed.
Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.
The song I read, the book I close,
And fling away the yellow rose.
No matter! Always, East and West,
Will yellow roses still be pressed.
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