Like pearl
Dropt from the opening eyelids of the morn
Upon the bashful rose.

"A rose lay open in full bloom
and, looking from my garden room,
I watched the sun-baked flower fill with rain.
It seemed so fragile,
resting there,
and such a silence filled the air,
the beauty of the moment caused me pain.
"What more?" I thought. "There must be more."
As if in answer then, I saw
one weighty drop that caused my rose to fall.
It trembled, then cascaded down
to earth just staining gentle brown
and, since then, I've felt different.
That's all."

Roses dropped petals that seemed as big and smooth as saucers, flame red, moon and white, glossy, and unwrinkled.

But o'er CYRENE'S cheek the rose,
Like moon-touch'd water, ebbs and flows;
And eyes that droop like Summer flowers
Told they could change with shine and showers.

By day the appalling loose beauty
of prowling floes:
lions’ heads, dragons, crucifix-wrecks,
and a thing like a blown rose.

In spring's own country, where the gardens blow,
You faded, tender rose! For hours now past,
Like butterflies departing, on you're cast
The worms of memories to work you woe.

Roses red and violets blew, And all the sweetest flowres that in the forrest grew.

Oh, that's the beauty of the rose, that it blossoms and dies.

A short time later, when the carpenter was taking measurements for the coffin, through the window they saw a light rain of tiny yellow flowers falling. They fell on the town all through the night in a silent storm, and they covered the roofs and blocked the doors and smothered the animals who slept outdoors. So many flowers fell from the sky that in the morning the streets were carpeted with a compact cushion and they had to clear them away with shovels and rakes so that the funeral procession could pass by.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng.

The rose petal floats on water. The kingfisher flashes above the pond. Life and beauty swirl in the midst of death.

And on the flowers
The plenteous spring a thousand streams down pours.

The snows and the roses of yesterday are vanished;
And what is love but a rose that fades?

There grew ten thousand flowers, on whose leaves
Shone every hue that ever yet hath shone
In a king's diadem of Indian gems,
Or in the tints an autumn sunset throws
O'er the rich glaciers in the rainbow arch
Of the departing shower ;