There is one who will come when the rest are away;
One bud of a rose will he bring for my hair;
He knows how I liked it, worn always that way,
And his fingers will tremble while placing it there.
Yes, he'll remember those soft June-day closes,
When the sky was as flushed as our own crimson roses;
He'll remember the flush on the sky and the flowers,
And the red on my cheek where his lips had been prest;
But the throes of his heart in the long, silent hours,
Will disturb not my dreams, so profoundly I'll rest.