A spring morning and the breeze freshening with the sweet pollen and the redolence coming from, the butterfly accidentally hovering around the rose of the balcony relishing or flirting with. My love is like a red, red rose, Blake. To George Herbert in the poem Virtue, spring a box full of sweets and roses. Everything passes off, but a virtuous soul never dies and is like seasoned timber, never gives so easily. It seems the spring writing love letters to roses or maybe it the rose petals in the dairy of the beloved. I am not a shayar, but since when saw you, turned into and you came as some shayari, I am not a shayar. Had the rose been a lassie!
