My soul, within a rose

Is all dead of dolor:

It’s the very morose

Tale of dream and flower.

I’ll not boot it abroad

On ways of royalty;

I deem that, Lady and Lord,

You’d have the laugh on me.

Now here’s the autumn wind

Upon both soul and flowers;

And yet am I astound

At this great sky in tears.

O rose from out my dream,

Wilt blossom some of these days?

From sap come into being,

Love, for future Mays?...

Stuart Merrill