Rose, dreaming of the nights of June,
And silently, from weeping eyes,
Shed tears of silver down the skies.
She seemed to walk her pilgrimage
Like one who, in the frosts of age,
Totters on toward the Holy Land,
Impelled by some pale phantom hand.
Wan August in extremis lay:
He knew that the approaching day
Consigned him to the solemn tomb