The mists that slept on the river’s brim.
Went up like the wings of the cherubim.

The water-lilies so cold and fair
Were tangled with tresses of bright brown hair.

The osiers bent with a quiet grace
over a form with a still, white face.

The river flow’d with a desolate moan,
And dead leaves fell on the cold grey stone.
– Sarah T. Bolton

A mist-shrouded river, laden with sorrow: water lilies, wild plum, carrot seed, jasmine petals, and yellow bergamot pouring over moss-covered stones.

 

Art by Drew Rausch!