I send you roses — red, like love,
And white, like death, sweet friend:
Born in your bosom to rejoice,
Languish, and droop, and end.
If the white roses tell of death,
Let the red roses mend
The talk with true stories of love
Unchanging till the end.
Red and white roses, love and death —
What else is left to send?
For what is life but love, the means,
And death, true Wife, the end?