Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

“The Little Rose is Dust, My Dear”

THE LITTLE rose is dust, my dear;

The elfin wind is gone

That sang a song of silver words

And cooled our hearts with dawn.

And what is left to hope, my dear,

Or what is left to say?

The rose, the little wind and you

Have gone so far away.