Between your ivory fingers fall
The withered rose-leaves of the Spring;
The jar is delicately wrought --
'Twas once the love-gift of a king.
Of royal blue the china is,
Where scrolls of gold and silver cling.
And as the rose-leaves drift, your eyes
Are deep and dark with coming tears;
Your unkissed mouth is tremulous
From looking on the barren years,
As one who by a closing gate
The distant, dying hoof-beats hears!
Oh, dry your eyes, Felise, and leave
The withered petals, while you list
To tale of newly-budding flowers
That break like dawning through the mist --
There are fresh lovers in the world
And other kisses to be kist!
First published in The Bulletin, 21 April 1921
