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 :::THE ROSE-LEAVES

S long as the roots of the green, green grass Grow cool in the kindly clay, The rose-leaves of sorrow will fall and pass And drift on the wind away.

Oh, rose-leaves, rose-leaves of delicate sorrow! Oh, rose-leaves passionate! Over the grasses of tomorrow You drift on the wind of fate.

Lightly, lightly you fall and drift, Delicate rose-leaves of exquisite pain; But something is left that no wind can lift, That returns again, that returns again.

Quivering rose-leaves, lighter than air, The wind may carry you away; But your passionate perfume is everywhere, The pitiless perfume of yesterday.

And tho' the roots of the green, green grass Grow cool for the feet of tomorrow; And tho' on the wind they drift and pass, The delicate rose-leaves of sorrow,