The lily need not struggle to be pure ,
Nor the rose guard her scent ;
Their beauty is by gift and must endure :
Thine is but lent .
True that each flower must die , like thee ; but know ,
Though all to dust resign ,
Somewhere the perfect rose and lily grow :
Thy life is thine .
Live then as life becomes thee : let my rhyme
Praising thee pure and sweet ,
Guide to that garden where , secure from time ,
Perfections meet .