THE ROSE HAS LEFT THE GARDEN

The Rose has left the garden,

Here she but faintly lives,

Lives but for me,

Within this little urn of pot-pourri

Of all that was

And never more can be,

While her black berries harden

On the wind-shaken tree.

Yet if my song a little fragrance gives,

‘ Tis not all loss,

Something I save

From the sweet grave

Wherein she lies,

Something she gave

That never dies,

Something that may still live

In these my words

That draw from her their breath,

And fain would be her birds

Still in her death.