Sweet flower, created for a night, 
Perfumèd disc of snowy white,
Thou 'rt wakened at the moon's first soft caress, 
So pure, so fair, so passionless.

And all the fragrant summer night
Come fluttering doves on wings so light;
They gaze upon the radiance of thy face, 
They marvel at thy slender grace.

But with the touch of rosy dawn, 
Ah me! thy loveliness is gone;
Sweet flower, thou art faded, withered, stilled,
Has thy brief life its mission filled?