Classic Poem

A rose in her hand, a rose in her breast,
A rose for the pillow her cheek has pressed.
The sun must shine though the rose is shed,
And I must live though she is dead.
The nightingale sings on as loud
Although they wind her in her shroud;
The garden stays when the flowers have fled.
And I must live though she is dead.

Each month had seemed as summer weather
Could we have braved each month together;
But Winter's come while the rose is red,
And I must live though she is dead.

We vowed that none should part us ever—
Ah God, the foolish, poor endeavour!
She could not stay though we were wed,
And I must live though she is dead.