Upon an old cottage window-sill

Within a white chipped vase

Seven pale roses droop,

Pensively looking at the stars;

The Pleiades, the “Seven Sisters”

Burn faintly up in the sky

And cast just a little light

Upon roses about to die,

Yet, those radiant glowing stars

Stirred a warmth within

The heart of each one

Like a pulse beneath ones skin

Animating a strong urge,

A need to often look to

Stars of a deep blue fire;

Thus, that night they pulled through.

Now they share an affinity

Not previously felt before,

And a keener sense of purpose

Their influence did restore;

A fresher, greener hue

Pervades each crinkled leaf

And no longer is there black gloom

Or an air of outright grief;

Now each uplifted head

Seems to show a glow

Of utter contentment

The kind that loved ones know.