O golden flowers the moon goes gathering
In magic gardens of her fairy-land,
While splendid angels of the sunset stand
Watching in flaming circles wing to wing . . .
In magic gardens of her fairy-land,
While splendid angels of the sunset stand
Watching in flaming circles wing to wing . . .
Frail golden flowers that perish at a breath,
That wither in the hands of light, and die
When bright dawn wakens in a silver sky.
Pale flowers of passion . . . delicate flowers of death.
That wither in the hands of light, and die
When bright dawn wakens in a silver sky.
Pale flowers of passion . . . delicate flowers of death.
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