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There must be no flowers by Lethe set,
Or only scentless ones!
Ah, God — the scent of a flower!
All else the flesh can endure.
But for that — in its hour — in its hour —
There is no cure.
- NOTHING
WILL my love come to me?
Alas! I have no love.
Though in green and rainy places
The fronds of the ferns uncurl.
And violets lift their faces
To a crescent moon of pearl.
Will my love come to me?
Alas! I have no love.
Far off — somewhere — a shining head —
O sweet Lord Christ who canst raise the dead.
Take my soul and give me my love instead!
Will my love come to me?
Alas! I have no love.
