English poem
The Passing Joy
by Charles John Heitzman (1911–1941)
She seemed like the blue smoke of incense, Rising tenuous, frail Losing itself in the azure sky, Leaving hardly a trail.
She passed like the blue smoke of incense Which leaves behind but a scent, Like that of a single blood red rose, Whose every joy is spent.
Like that of a passing rose, which spreads The subtle fragrance of pain. She too left only this fragrance To haunt my heart and brain. 2em