What say thee, Rose, this sun-filled autumn day

As you recline against that mortared wall?

Your kin have left this garden, passed away.

Though you’re still here, it’s Death you can’t forestall.

Those crimson petals like a Jewish star

And fully opened to the midday sun

Will soon be saying weakly au revoir.

Then what remembrance of your presence?  None!

But you have filled the yard with pomp and grace,

A stately queen despite your too-short reign.

Your sweet bouquet, though now there’s little trace,

Had wafted boldly through this rare domain.

Since Beauty blossoms swiftly, swiftly dies,

Let us reduce our pace and use our eyes.