The tree, whose tear this resin was,
is dust beyond recovering;
yet, as in golden locket-glass,
its fossil grief preserves to us
fragilities of bud or wing.

Velvet and vein and rib are dry,
yet they are whole and are a rose;
the lexicon where they must lie
(of a dead speech that would not die)
outwears - like them - a flower that grows.

Sidereal weeping drowns what grew 
five-petalled on our almanac
our tree of proverbs: how construe
the mummy-leaves when I, or you,
shall close the amber and the book?