The flower-strewn river lip and meadows fair,
The rose herself but fleeting treasures were,
Regret and Winter follow in their trail.
Dear were the days which perished with my friend—
Ah, what is left of life, now she is dead,
All wisdomless and profitless I spend!
The nightingale his own life’s blood doth shed,
When, to the kisses of the wind, the morn
Unveils the rose’s splendour—with his torn
And jealous breast he dyes her petals red.