Roses the lover gives to his love;

Roses we lay on the breast of death That nevermore fondest whisper can move - Which is the sweeter, answer and prove.

Passionate love, or sleep without breath?

For love you burn with a crimson fire,

For death you are pale as the winter's snow;

Warm for the one, with the heart's desire,

Cold for the other, since hopes expire -

Which is the sweeter? When shall we know?

- Louise Chandler Monlton, in Independent.