This Is All That Is Left - This Letter And This Rose! And Do You, Poor Dreaming Things, For A Moment Suppose That Your Little Fire Shall Burn For Ever And Ever On, And This Great Fire Be, All But These Ashes, Gone? Flower! Of Course She Is - But Is She The Only Flower? She Must Vanish Like All The Rest At The Funeral Hour, And You That Love Her With Brag Of Your All-Conquering Thew, What, In The Eyes Of The Gods, Tall Though You Be, Are You? You And She Are No More - Yea! A Little Less Than We; And What Is Left Of Our Loving Is Little Enough To See; Sweet The Relics Thereof - A Rose, A Letter, A Glove - That In The End Is All That Remains Of The Mightiest Love. Six-Foot Two! What Of That? For Death Is Taller Than He; And, Every Moment, Death Gathers Flowers As Fair As She; And Nothing You Two Can Do, Or Plan Or Purpose Or Dream, But Will Go The Way Of The Wind And Go The Way Of The Stream.