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THE ROSE-LEAVES

AS long as the roots of the green, green grass
   Grow cool in the kindly clay,
The rose-leaves of sorrow will fall and pass
   And drift on the wind away.

Oh, rose-leaves, rose-leaves of delicate sorrow!
   Oh, rose-leaves passionate!
Over the grasses of tomorrow
   You drift on the wind of fate.

Lightly, lightly you fall and drift,
   Delicate rose-leaves of exquisite pain;
But something is left that no wind can lift,
   That returns again, that returns again.

Quivering rose-leaves, lighter than air,
   The wind may carry you away;
But your passionate perfume is everywhere,
   The pitiless perfume of yesterday.

And tho' the roots of the green, green grass
   Grow cool for the feet of tomorrow;
And tho' on the wind they drift and pass,
   The delicate rose-leaves of sorrow,