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Roses Are Red Poems · Love

Roses Are Red (A Toast in Eight Lines)

by The QuillOak Editors

Roses are red, the aisle has been walked,

the rings have been fumbled, the toasts have been talked;

now comes the part that the cameras won't see:

ten thousand small mornings of "you" and of "me."

Roses are red, and the cake will be gone,

the band will pack up and the guests will move on —

but long after petals and toasts disappear,

may you keep what you promised the world gathered here.

Original poem © QuillOak — free for personal use.

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