The vase is broken and it lies in bits -- A shattered dream of beauty at my feet; The Potter's careful work -- the glazier's task All gone for naught. About the room there flits Pale dust from crumbling petals of a rose That blossom'd in its clasp. Not hers to ask The why of living or if death be sweet -- Hers but to blossom for a day and leave A fragrance clinging round a broken vase -- This, ev'n tragedy cannot erase; An echo yet for some lost happiness -- A golden mem'ry for the soul's reprieve. O dream, that one man formed from senseless clay! Beauty lives on forever, and its loveliness Recks not the blossom space of one short day. Up from the ruins rises sweet perfume -- Sweeter than flowers in their radiant bloom -- More poignant than the last, long bitterness Of candles burning in a darkened room. |