FIFTH OPAL

I dreamed my kisses on your hair

Turned into roses. Circling bloom

Crowned the loose-lifted tresses there.

“O Love,” I cried, “forever

Dwell wreathed, and perfume-haunted

By my heart's deep honey-breath!”

But even as I bending looked, I saw

The roses were not; and, instead, there lay

Pale, feathered flakes and scentless

Ashes upon your hair!