Across the field whereon no blossom grows,
And light the land where no gay life may rest
Save glowing hasty fingers of the West,
When our two hearts lie cold beneath the rose?
These silver flakes of ancient hoary frost,
Surviving all our joys' supremest powers,
And though the petals of your lips be lost
And gone the summer of your golden head,
This pale eternal growth of winter's flowers
Shall still live on—though our sweet love be dead.