She never knew the brittle rose would wake
    The far-off dormant egypt of its day
That she entombed; spring gave, autumn would take
    The mocking pity of its death away,
High summer that she lived through would be killed,
    Sink down, die prematurely on the noon.
And in the lamplight grey with love be stilled,
    And even she become austere too soon;
He companies the winter of the rose,
    Under the winter's lamp delineates