White robed ministrant of beauty,
Vestal of the sun,
Thou art drooping in the daylight,
Daylight, just begun.

See the rose that pressed thy white wings,
Resting from thy flight,
Lifts again a dew-filled chalice
To the god of light.

Cold and pale, her white cup quivers
In the autumn breeze,
Heedless of the red-gold flutter,
Dripping from the trees.

Last of all the merry comrades, —
Bird and bud and bee, —
Ghosts strayed from the path of summer, —
Thou as wan as she.

Go and comfort her, sad vestal,
For thy god is cold,
And his smile is turning from thee, —
Leaving death and mold.

Die not as I look upon thee,
Fluttering in my palm;
I would cherish thee and heal thee,
Give thy wounds a balm.

But my touch is heavy on thee,
Heavy as my grief,
And my helpless fingers press thee,
Yielding no relief.

Lift and bless thy white rose comrade,
Lone and sad she grieves;
Die with her in golden glory,
Shrined in autumn leaves.