That the tended roses are all gone with their perfumes,
That the footsteps of the mourners no longer linger
there,
Where the field flower only blooms?
They are dead. Let none remember;
Let their memories die as they;
Clear the dead leaves of November
For the careless passing footsteps of April and of May;
Be no sign of last night's saddened ember
In the flame we raise to-day.