Reliquiae

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.