The white rose tree that spent its musk
— For lovers' sweeter praise,
The stately walks we sought at dusk,
— Have missed thee many days.

Again, with once-familiar feet,
— I tread the old parterre —
But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet
— Than when thy face was there.

I hear the birds of evening call;
— I take the wild perfume;
I pluck a rose — to let it fall
— And perish in the gloom.