I

The last rose falls, wrecked of the wind and rain; Where once it bloomed the thorns alone remain: Dead in the wet the slow rain strews the rose. The day was dim; now eve comes on again, Grave as a life weighed down with many woes: So is the joy dead, and alive the pain.

The brown leaf flutters where the green leaf died; Bare are the boughs, and bleak the forest side: The wind is whirling with the last wild leaf. The eve was strange; now dusk comes weird and wide, Gaunt as a life that lives alone with grief: So hope is gone, and doubt and loss abide.

An empty nest hangs where the wood-bird pled; Along the west the dusk dies, stormy red: The frost falls, subtle as a serpent’s breath. The dusk was sad; now night is overhead, Grim as a life brought face to face with death: So life lives on when love, its life, lies dead.