(7 February 1878 - 15 November 1958 / New York City, New York)

The Little Rose Is Dust, My Dear

The little rose is dust, my dear;
The elfin wind is gone
That sang a song of silver words
And cooled our hearts with dawn.

And what is left to hope, my dear,
Or what is left to say?
The rose, the little wind and you
Have gone so far away.

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