  Lay but a finger on That pallid petal sweet, It trembles gray and wan Beneath the passing feet. But soft! blown rose, we know A merriment of bloom, A life of sturdy glow,— But no such dear perfume. As some good bard, whose page Of life with beauty's fraught, Grays on to ripe old age Sweet-mellowed through with thought. So when his hoary head Is wept into the tomb, The mind, which is not dead, Sheds round it rare perfume. |
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