The purple iris drooped and died,
The last bright, fragile flower of Spring;
And June has brought her roses in
And makes her offering
Of scented beauty to the year
That sees joys come and disappear.

If you would gather roses, then
Let nothing make you late,
For none may buy back yesterday
And roses never wait.
Put by your grief and reverently
Do homage to a blossoming tree.

Ugly things may hold you down
Or drive you in some dusty way,
With burdens that you may not shirk,
Or understand; and yet today
Here is a perfect thing that you
May love and own an hour or two.

The wind that blows bright petals down,
The breaking, beating rain,
Still visit men and gardens with
Their mystery of pain,
And men and gardens go their way
From dust to dust in their brief day.

But beauty is the treasure that
No thief may take from you,
If you have seen bright roses with
A light wind going through—
If you have known their scented breath
Why need you be afraid of death?

O, let no lovely thing be lost!
The rose is yours to have and hold,
And you will find it in your heart
When all your ways grow cold.
Beauty shall lead you at the end
Gently as a familiar friend.