No more your softest lids do close,
No longer graze a virgin dream:
I am the specter of the rose
You wore as yesterday's ball queen.
You took me still impearled in tears,
The pourer's silver drops relieved;
Amidst the starry sky so clear,
You walked me all that darkling eve.
O you, who caused my mortal throes,
Shall not dispel this looming dread,
That all the night my specter rose
Will come and dance beside your bed.
But do not fear, I shall not dole
In Mass, or De Profundis wail;
For this faint scent is my own soul
And from sweet paradise I hail.
So enviable was my fate:
For such a beautiful demise
So many wouldn't have wished to wait;
My tomb beneath your bosom lies,
And on the alabaster white,
Inscribes a poet with a kiss:
"Here lies a rose of petals bright
Which every king will wish were his."