Oh, I shall pluck the wild rose sweet
that blooms here in the grass,
and tramp this way my wandering feet
must some day cease to pass.

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For stars and wind and grass will fade
like the first wreath Helen wore,
and soon I'll crumble and be laid
where Beauty cries no more.

And some far day this magic gloom
will gild a city street,
and the rose of steel, black-petalled, bloom
where now the night is sweet.