The Fugitives (Smith)

O fugitive fragrances That tremble heavenward Unceasing, or if ye linger, Halt but as memories On the verge of forgetfulness, Why must ye pass so fleetly On wings that are less than wind, To a death unknowable? Soon ye are gone, and the air Forgets your faint unrest In the garden's breathlessness, Where fall the snows of silence.