'Too late for love, too late for joy,
 Too late, too late!
You loitered on the way too long,
 You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
 Died without a mate;  
The enchanted princess in her tower
 Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
 You made it wait.

'Ten years ago, five years ago,
 One year ago,
e'en then you had arrived in time,
 Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
 Which now you cannot know:  
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
 The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
 To melt the snow.

 ... 

'You should have wept her yesterday,
 Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
 That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
 But crown her royal head.  
Let be these poppies that we strew,
 Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
 Cut down and spread.'