Lay But A Finger On That Pallid Petal Sweet, It Trembles Gray And Wan Beneath The Passing Feet. But Soft! Blown Rose, We Know A Merriment Of Bloom, A Life Of Sturdy Glow, - But No Such Dear Perfume. As Some Good Bard, Whose Page Of Life With Beauty'S Fraught, Grays On To Ripe Old Age Sweet-Mellowed Through With Thought. So When His Hoary Head Is Wept Into The Tomb, The Mind, Which Is Not Dead, Sheds Round It Rare Perfume.