A flower - shrivelled， bare of fragrance¹，

    Forgotten on a page - I see，

    And instantly my soul awakens²，

    Filled with an aimless reverie：

    When did it bloom？ the last spring？ earlier？

    How long？ Where was it plucked？ By whom？

    By foreign hands？ or by familiar？

    And why put here， as in a tomb？

    To mark a tender meeting by it？

    A parting with a precious one？

    Or just a walk， alone and quiet，

    In forests' shade？ in meadows' sun？

    Is she alive？ Is he still with her？

    Where is their haven³ at this hour？

    Or did they both already wither⁴，

    Like this unfathomable flower？

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