“can you make these two verses rhyme; In Grandma’s garden, by the fence, A rose bush stands—in past and sense The printer’s hum, mechanical and low, Spun tales of roses, row by row,”

In Grandma’s garden, by the fence,  
A rose bush stands—in past and sense;  
The printer’s hum, mechanical and low,  
Spun tales of roses, row by row.

Petals pressed on thin white sheets,  
Ink and velvet, fragrance meets—  
Each printed bloom, a memory grown,  
Echoing roots in loam she’d known.

So time runs through the garden’s veins,  
Where roses bloom through joys and pains;  
Machines may shape what hearts intend,  
But Grandma’s garden has no end.

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