A bed of slowly dying roses, wan
    With paucity of prickles, bright and young
Lay dry, gorging on tears that fall upon
    The earth, but suddenly a maiden sung

And with her gentle voice that rose above
    The clouds, white stags most swift and soft and lithe
The roses, dead, arose with strengthened love
    Like Spring’s first blush, most fair and warm and blithe

And then the fair-voiced maiden fled to night
    Away across the moon and the gold sun
And now the roses stand tall with red pride
    The fair-voiced maiden knows her deed she’s done

And whenever blossoms are dying black
    Frail and faint under death’s tattered wing
The maiden of love, o, she will come back
    And with the voice of love, once more she’ll sing…