[Grown people often write in sympathy with children, but here is
a little poem by a child written in sympathy with grown folks:]
ASHES OF ROSES.
Soft on the sunset sky
Bright daylight closes,
Leaving, when light doth die,
Pale hues that mingling lie—
Ashes of roses.
When love's warm sun is set,
Love's brightness closes;
Eyes with hot tears are wet,