Whispers the grave to the rose:

“With the dew that the dawn bestows,

What dost thou, love’s darling blossom?”

And the rose to the grave soft saith:

“And thou, dread abyss of death,

With them in thine awful bosom?”

But answers: “Mystical tomb,

From the dew I exhale in the gloom

Mine odor of amber and spices.”

Then the grave: “Ah, querulous flower!

Even so from each heart in my power

An angel to Heaven arises.”