The rape of youth, by cruel fate and time,
Long since negates the sweetness of those flowers;
Betraying love and murdering the rhyme
Which tells of hope surpassing deadly hours.
Those flowers you gave to me are red, the red
Which’s all that’s left on a virgin bride’s bed;
Those flowers you gave to me are soft and bright;
Tomorrow, tell me, will they please my sight?
Will those petals shrivel and lose their hue,
Or will they remain so – to love just me?
Oh, no, do not reply. (I know those tears, too!)
Those dew drops upon those petals I see,
They fade, e’en now, before my wary eye;
‘Tis best not to know that e’en now they die!