- THE ROSE-LEAVES
AS long as the roots of the green, green grass
Grow cool in the kindly clay,
The rose-leaves of sorrow will fall and pass
And drift on the wind away.
Oh, rose-leaves, rose-leaves of delicate sorrow!
Oh, rose-leaves passionate!
Over the grasses of tomorrow
You drift on the wind of fate.
Lightly, lightly you fall and drift,
Delicate rose-leaves of exquisite pain;
But something is left that no wind can lift,
That returns again, that returns again.
Quivering rose-leaves, lighter than air,
The wind may carry you away;
But your passionate perfume is everywhere,
The pitiless perfume of yesterday.
And tho' the roots of the green, green grass
Grow cool for the feet of tomorrow;
And tho' on the wind they drift and pass,
The delicate rose-leaves of sorrow,
