RELIQUIAE

This is all that is left — this letter and this rose!

And do you, poor dreaming things, for a moment suppose

That your little fire shall burn for ever and ever on,

And this great fire be, all but these ashes, gone?

Flower! of course she is — but is she the only flower?

She must vanish like all the rest at the funeral hour,

And you that love her with brag of your all-conquering thew,

What, in the eyes of the gods, tall though you be, are you?

You and she are no more — yea! a little less than we;

And what is left of our loving is little enough to see;

Sweet the relics thereof — a rose, a letter, a glove —

That in the end is all that remains of the mightiest love.

Six-foot two! what of that? for Death is taller than he;

And, every moment, Death gathers flowers as fair as she;

And nothing you two can do, or plan or purpose or dream,

But will go the way of the wind and go the way of the stream.