THE FUGITIVES


O fugitive fragrances

That tremble heavenward

Unceasing, or if ye linger,

Halt but as memories

On the verge of forgetfulness,

Why must ye pass so fleetly

On wings that are less than wind,

To a death unknowable?

Soon ye are gone, and the air

Forgets your faint unrest

In the garden's breathlessness,

Where fall the snows of silence.


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