Still the rich fragrance about them is shed;
Delicate petals fall off with a touch;
Happy and mourn'd for, the roses are dead!
And when we die (if death ever can be,
Life leaping in me, it sounds like a jest),
May it be thus with my Harry and me—
Love's latest perfume its sweetest and best.
He, whom I speak to, smiles into my face,
Crying, with kisses, that life would restore,
'All that you say has a feminine grace;