Flowers, cold from the dew,<br />And autumn's approaching breath,<br />I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids,<br />Which haven't faded yet.<br /><br />In their nights, fragrantly resinous,<br />Entwined with delightful mystery,<br />They will breathe in her springlike<br />Extraordinary beauty.<br /><br />But in a whirlwind of sound and fire,<br />From her shing head they will flutter<br />And fall—and before her<br />They will die, faintly fragrant still.<br /><br />And, impelled by faithful longing,<br />My obedient gaze will feast upon them—<br />With a reverent hand,<br />Love will gather their rotting remains.