The Still Hours Poem by Evelyn Judy Buehler

Purple plums were on the table,
With darkest grapes colored sable,
A vase of roses near the door,
Wafting fragrancy like before.

The dawn sun glowed at the windows,
A dreaming world on soft pillows,
The premature clock chimed the hour,
Like fondest hopes before they sour!

The cozy room with loads of books,
Wears dawn colors when no one looks.
Artists call such scenes a still life,
In like fine moments the world's rife.