But if one day in paleness of hoar-frost,
Your splendid hue, O lovely rose is lost,
If, shattered by the chilling blast,
You bend your dying stem at last
And one by one your leaves let fall—
Poor yellowed leaves—and scentless all—
Grieve not—those leaves upon my heart
I'll gather up—nor from them part—
Bright days and years may fade, alas!
Sweet love of mine, Thou shalt not pass.
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