The Cypress whispered to the Ivy: Wake!
Why dream'st thou, Child? She dreamed thy Play, O Rose;
The Nightingale a thousand long nights through
But trilled thy own sweet Melody, O Rose.
The Heavens more fair assume thy radiant form,
But thou outviest their Phantasy, O Rose.
The Rose a message brings from Paradise
Where Souls for thee all eager stay, O Rose.
The Rose brings greeting to the Soul from Home;
The Soul forgets thee not for aye, O Rose.