A scarlet rose that once was gay,
And doubtless made some garden fair:
But faded now-its beauty gone;
Yet though it lay, as time pressed on,
Concealed amid her treasures there,
Its fragrance never passed away.
An early love at youth’s hey-day,
That promised richest joys and sweet;
Yet, though the hope of that rare hour
Declined and faded as a flower
That withers ‘neath the noon-day heat
Its fragrance never passed away.
E. Maurice Little (1923)