Omar, the roses blossom by your grave, And as the cool night-winds their petals lave I hear your roses singing in the dark, Dove-murmuring this fragmentary stave, "Our life is from the earth that once was you; Perchance in us your soul doth surge anew, O poet; but we fall and leave no mark; And only fatten earth, as you did too. All ends in d**h, which is the seed of life, For earth again shall make your roses rife: Mourn not the fleeting flower, a transient spark Flung from the immanent fire's unending strife." The dream-winds swoon; the roses sing no more, Omar, above your grave in Naishapûr.