There Are Tears to Wash the Wilted Rose By Don Perry There are tears to wash the wilted rose. One for each that in his garden grows. He goes there often to think of love, And hears the soft calling of the dove. His hands are wrinkled, his hair is grey. He tends his garden late in the day. Tulips and daisies he grows not one. For only roses grow there in the setting sun. It is for each rose he sheds a tear But on the morrow new buds appear. To all things this death must come Even as each day must have a setting sun. Could he have gained a day for these lives, so frail? A gift of water, perhaps, from youths sweet pail. To be young and regain their youth is his desire, As he contemplates their death, sitting by his fire. It is not for the wilted rose he cries But for each and every thing that dies, That lives and loves, until, with a final sigh Returns to the soil and finally lies.