The Vial of Attar

Lesbia's lover when bereaved
In pagan times of yore
Ere the gladsome tidings ran
Of reunion evermore,
He wended from the pyre
Now hopeless in return —
Ah, the vial hot with tears
For the ashes cold in urn!

But I, the Rose's lover,
When my beloved goes
Followed by the Asters.
Toward the sepulchre of snows,
Then, solaced by the Vial
Less grieve I for the Tomb,
Not widowed of the fragrance
If parted from the bloom —
Parted from the bloom
That was but for a day;

Rose! I dally with thy doom:
The solace will not stay!
There is nothing like the bloom;
And the Attar poignant minds me
Of the bloom that's passed away.