Flowers, cold from the dew, And autumn's approaching breath, I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids, Which haven't faded yet. In their nights, fragrantly resinous, Entwined with delightful mystery, They will breathe in her springlike Extraordinary beauty. But in a whirlwind of sound and fire, From her shing head they will flutter And fallВ-and before her They will die, faintly fragrant still. And, impelled by faithful longing, My obedient gaze will feast upon themВ- With a reverent hand, Love will gather their rotting