(After Victor Hugo.)
The Tomb said to the Rose:
O Flower of Love, where goes
Each tear which Dawn upon thy cheeks doth shed?
The Rose said to the Tomb:
What makest in thy gloom
Impenetrable of the countless dead?
Said the Rose: O Tomb, of all these tears,
In my recesses ere the sun appears,
I make a perfume which the gods will prize.
Said the Tomb: O plaintive Flower,
Of every mortal I devour
An angel do I make for Paradise.