The Yellow Rose

Sad Autumn is the miser of thy gold; But dead and meek Thy petals speak More than thy beauty told. Now art thou sister of the wind and dew— All fleeting things Whose rainbow wings Depart to come anew. They make a fountain of the funeral urn— Fragrance and tint That, passing, hint They pass but to return. We find a myriad glimmerings of Truth; Her perfect face Withholds its grace, Granting the heart its youth. The deathless lyric ever on her tongue Bestows a word; The rest, unheard, To alien skies is sung. And so by touch and shadow, glimpse and gleam, We know what path Her passion hath On heavens and hearts that dream. And know that change is best, despite its pain: On custom's rust And Beauty's dust Falls the renewing rain. Wherefore his wings, except the swallow flew? Joy's thrall is brief, But that of grief Is made as transient too, Either were not, were either evermore. The flower soon dies, But soon the sighs End, that we sighed therefor.