From Jean Moréas' "Stances"

The garden rose I paid no honour to,
So humbly poised and fashioned on its spray,
Has now by wind unkissed, undrenched by dew,
Lived captive in her vase beyond a day.

And tired and pale, bereft of earth and sun,
Her blossom over and her hour of pride,
She has dropped all her petals, one by one,
Unmindful if she lived or how she died.

When doom is passing in her dusky glade
Let us learn silence. In this evening hour,
O heart bowed down with mystery and shade,
Too heavy lies the spectre of a flower !