In a pale rose the heart of summer lies;
A glow-worm breaks the blackness of the night;
On the still air a petal floats and dies;
One more pale flame is swallowed by the light.
A wanton bud is drinking up the rain,
Believing it will some day be a rose;
The fickle earth is fertile once again;
The lustful sun in crimson triumph glows.
I want the flower that was yesterday,
And gave its fading fragrance to the air;
I want the flame that flickered in the fray
And knew the blatant brightness of despair.
What do I care for this awakening?
God give me deafness lest I hear the shout,
The harsh, forgetful tumult of the spring;
My rose is withered and my fire is out.