For me alone she culled the roses

For me alone she culled the roses

From off this bush;

Like them, she had not bloomed quite fully,

O harvest sweet!

The sheaf alas! is shrunk and withered,

Just like herself.

The harvester in-gathered

Is sleeping here.

But on the tomb in which you're lying,

My dearest one,

An eglantine there grows half-opened,

Smiling always!

And 'neath the rosebush that bends over,

Whene'er I go

I can hear from the grave a whisper:

"I remember."