Rose of the garden's roses, what pale wind
Has scattered those flushed petals in an hour,
And the close leaves of all the alleys thinned,
What re-awakening wind,
O sad enchantress banished to a flower?
Parsifal has out-blushed the roses: dead
Is all the garden of the world's delight.
And every rose of joy has drooped its head,
And for sweet shame is dead;
Sweet joy being shameful in the pure fool's sight.
