  Roses, I hate you! since you still can bloom Contentedly, where living love is not! Can fling wan fragrance thro' this empty room, Lift languid petals shimmering 'mid the gloom Where love is not. Roses, I hate you! that you do not die Disconsolate, since love himself is dead. These ghosts of burnt-out kisses drifting by, Have they no power to hurt, to terrify, Since love is dead? And all these spectral words that haunt the air With hollow sounds, grown awful, meaningless! Can you still blossom passionately fair Within this region, frigid with despair? |
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