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Who sped your beauty's seed across the sea,
Bidding you burgeon in that alien clime?
And what prophetic wind of destiny
Restored you to us in your flowering time
For a brief season to delight and bless
Our hearts with delicate splendour and perfume,
Till Death usurped your vivid loveliness
In wanton envy of its radiant bloom?
O frail, miraculous flower, tho' you are dead,
The deathless fragrance of your spirit cleaves
To the dear wreath whereon our tears are shed,
Of your sweet wind-blown and love-garnered Leaves.[1]
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