When the rose is faded,
Memory may still dwell on
Her beauty shadowed
And the sweet smell gone.
That vanishing loveliness,
That burdening breath
No breath of life hate then,
Nor grief of death.
'Tis the immortal thought
Whose passion still
Makes of the changing
The unchangeable.
Oh, thus thy beauty,
Loveliest on earth to me,
Dark with no sorrow, shines
And burns, with thee.
Walter de la Mare (1834–1956)
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