Classic Poem

She handed me a gay bouquet
Of roses pulled in the rain,
Delicate beauties frail and cold—
Could roses heal my pain?

She smiled: ‘Ah, c'est un triste temps!’
I laughed and answered ‘Yes,’
Pressing the roses in my palms.
How could the roses guess?

She sang ‘Madame est seule?’ Her eye
Snapped like a rain-washed berry.
How could the solemn roses tell
Which of us was more merry?

She turned to go: she stopped to chat;
‘Adieu,’ at last she cried.
‘Mille mercis pour ces jolies fleurs!’ …
At that the roses died.

The petals drooped, the petals fell,
The leaves hung crisped and curled.
And I stood holding my dead bouquet
In a dead world.