In a pale rose the heart of summer lies; A glow-worm breaks the blackness of the night; On the still air a petal floats and dies; One more pale flame is swallowed by the light. A wanton bud is drinking up the rain, Believing it will some day be a rose; The fickle earth is fertile once again; The lustful sun in crimson triumph glows. I want the flower that was yesterday, And gave its fading fragrance to the air; I want the flame that flickered in the fray And knew the blatant brightness of despair. What do I care for this awakening? God give me deafness lest I hear the shout, The harsh, forgetful tumult of the spring; My rose is withered and my fire is out.