And leave behind the loves that plead no more,
The dear frivolity of wiles and ways
They neither need nor know in these grim days.
Here in their garden's close I spend no tear,
No smile—too rare the heights for such display.
But on the frosted hedges' lifted spear
And with my head a little bowed, I lay
A pale camelia, proud and cold as they
Who wait beneath their ashen pall of snow—
Perhaps the fair dead dames will see and know.