CHAPTER XVIII. 
ROSE— love. 
How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 
Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower. 
The bridal day., the festival, the tomb, 
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower ! 
Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by 
A thousand images of love and grief, 
Dreams, filled with tokens of mortality, 
Deep thought of all things beautiful and brief. 
