Grim

This perhaps
is the last rose I sing for
in awe and love,
praise and despair!

This perhaps
is the last rose I sing for
in grief and passion,
ill and sorrow,

in my yearning for,
then parting so!

So,
upon this rose I wish befalls
no more withering,
perhaps this sacrilege time can commit:

to hold the hours and still the sun
while the glint of dew hangs
by her dying blush,

'til I'd sung my song
for this rose I part with,
and off to the medley I'd go

long, long before time revives the day
and doles the fade of dying.