Rosa

A poor rose is shut up

in your little prayer book,

a poor heath rose

that long passing time has dried up.

"Who gave you that sad flower?

What pleasant dream does it remind you of?"

"Ah," you answer, "Love passes quickly!

The splendid evenings of April pass quickly!"

Now you think about it, and suddenly

a tear veils your eye.

Then you kiss it, trembling, and there is shining

on your face a vivid smile!