Classic Poem

Come here. I know while it was May
My mouth was your most precious rose,
My eyes your violets, as you say.
Fair words, as old as Love, are those.

I gave my flowers while they were sweet,
And sweetly you have kept them, all
Through my slow Summer's great last heat
Into the lonely mist of Fall.

Once more I give them. Put them by,
Back in your memory's faded years —
Yet look at them, sometimes; and try,
Sometimes, to kiss them through your tears.

I've dimly known, afraid to know,
That you should have new flowers to wear;
Well, buds of rose and violets blow
Before you in the unfolding air.

So take from other hands, I pray,
Such gifts of flowers as mine once gave:
I go into the dust, since they
Can only blossom from my grave.