Reliquiae

This is all that is left--this letter and this rose! And do you, poor dreaming things, for a moment suppose That your little fire shall burn for ever and ever on, And this great fire be, all but these ashes, gone? Flower! of course she is--but is she the only flower? She must vanish like all the rest at the funeral hour, And you that love her with brag of your all-conquering thew, What, in the eyes of the gods, tall though you be, are you? You and she are no more--yea! a little less than we; And what is left of our loving is little enough to see; Sweet the relics thereof--a rose, a letter, a glove-- That in the end is all that remains of the mightiest love. Six-foot two! what of that? for Death is taller than he; And, every moment, Death gathers flowers as fair as she; And nothing you two can do, or plan or purpose or dream, But will go the way of the wind and go the way of the stream.