Her love is like an autumn flow'r,
An immortelle with petals wide,
Risen beside the vine-wrought bow'r,
Whose red leaves, loosened hour by hour,
Pass on the airs of eventide....

On some lost wind the loves that were
In the bleak night are blown away;
But the white memory of her
Endures amid the sigh and stir
Of all dead dreams of yesterday.