Alive and white, we praised the Tuberose,
So sweet it fill’d the garden with its breath,
A spike of waxy bloom that grows and grows
Until at length it blooms itself to death.
Everything dies that lives—everything dies;
How shall we keep the flower we lov’d so long?
O press to death the transient thing we prize,
Crush it, and shut the elixir in a song.
A song is neither live nor sweet nor white;
It hath no heavenly blossom tall and pure,
No fragrance can it breathe for our delight,
It grows not, neither lives; it may endure.
Sweet Tuberose, adieu! you fade too fast!
Only a dream, only a thought, can last.