Sentiment

What have we in common
with the rose
which trembleth
when a drop of dew
has formed upon it?
Only for us remains the memory
Of sultry moons and summer rains
And we have found, where petals lie
The flowers that bloom mournfully
And what of the moon
which beckons ebon tides
to stir stone hearts
in lonely waves of gray?
Do we not hide
from the wake of love
Do we not quake
from the pain of sentiment?
What have we in common
with the rose
which trembleth
when a drop of dew
has formed upon it?