Though dark was my dwelling, this darling of Flora,
Like a spirit of beauty, enlivened the gloom;
Yet more than I loved her I seemed to adore her,
Less fond of her fragrance than proud of her bloom.
But long ere the brightness of summer was shaded,
My Moss-rose was drooping and withering away;
Her perfume had perished, her freshness had faded—
The very condition of life is decay.
And now more than ever I cherish and prize her,
For love shall not falter though beauty depart;