THE flower you gave will die, my dear,
Its crimson petals must grow sere,
Its odour faint, and fail and vanish :
For Time, whose thievish finger strips
The pride of youth, whose icy lips,
With frozen kisses breathing, banish
The fever-flame from youth’s warm blood,
And dull the brain within its hood,
Has pity on no boys and girls,
No laughing lips, no golden curls.
But while my heart and brain agree
To serve their master loyally,
This faded flower bids me remember
The shining eyes, the lovely face,
That lent existence light and grace :
And, as a man who blows an ember
From a dull spark to a fierce flame,
The lightest whisper of your name
Shall bid my pulses beat, in sooth,
With all the passionate joy of youth !
(Justin H. McCarthy)
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