Lay but a finger on
That pallid petal sweet,
It trembles gray and wan
Beneath the passing feet.
But soft! blown rose, we know
A merriment of bloom,
A life of sturdy glow,—
But no such dear perfume.
As some good bard, whose page
Of life with beauty's fraught,
Grays on to ripe old age
Sweet-mellowed through with thought.
So when his hoary head
Is wept into the tomb,
The mind, which is not dead,
Sheds round it rare perfume.