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DEAD FLOWERS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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153

DEAD FLOWERS

A tuft of mignonette, a withered rose!
Numberless foolish hearts have treasured such.
Now, as I lift them from their long repose,
They turn to dust and crumble at a touch—
Poor flowers that meant so much!
They meant—pure love and limitless belief
In summer's faithfulness, in sunny skies:
They mean—one lonely pang of silent grief,
Just one true tear that in a moment dries,
For even sorrow dies.
So with the millions who have hoarded flowers:
The frail love-token lasts, the heart's love goes.
Man's vaunted strength and woman's boasted powers
Are more ephemeral even than the rose,
The frailest flower that blows!

154

A withered rose, a tuft of mignonette—
How passing weak must be the human heart,
For these outlive even love, outlast regret,
Abide even when grim pain, with blunted dart,
Makes ready to depart.