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“Now rose the moon, and with it came the day’s most lovely hour,
And from the clear, pale, lofty dome, she poured her shimmer down
On the veranda wreathed in lovely flowers;
While at our feet the lily spread
Its scent, its chalice tipped with gold;
And on the hard, broad stairway there
We grouped together, young and old,
Silent at first, and let our feelings sing
Our hearts’ old songs in that most lovely hour.
“From the mignonette bed a lovely scent was all around diffused,
And from the dark and gloomy tangle of the undergrowth
The shadows crept over the dewy plot.
Our spirits, freed, now flew on high
To regions which they scarce could reach,
To the pale blue shining dome on high,
Whose brightness scarce revealed a star.
Ah! who could flee a throbbing of the heart
When shadows sport and mignonette perfumes the air.
“A Provence rose shed silently its last, pale, fading leaves,
And yet no sportive breeze had claimed the sacrifice.
So, thought we, would we give our life,
Vanish in air like a dying tone,
Like autumn’s yellow leaves, without a sigh.
Oh! ye strain at the length of our years, disturb
Thus Nature’s peace—to grasp a vision.
Death is Life’s wage, so may we pass in peace
As a Provence rose sheds silently its last pale leaves.
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