The garden through which the season passes Is full of rose.
Without any worries I could possibly count all the rose in garden.
The reasons I can not count all of the rose
Which are carved into my heart one by one, are
Because the morning is soon to arrive,
Because tommorrow night is yet to come, and
Because my youth has not ended yet.
To a rose memory
To a rose love
To a rose loneliness
To a rose yearning
To a rose poem
To a rose.........
He slipped the ring on her finger.