Maurice Maeterlinck

“ Its lips are sealed, in the depths of woe,
And a world away, in the far-off gloom,
They sing of azure stems that grow
A mystic bloom.
But lo, its fingers I have grown
Pallid beholding them, I who perceive
Them traces the marks its poor unblown
Lost lilies leave.
And I know it must die, for its hour is o'er;
Folding its impotent hands at last,
Hands too weary to pluck any more
The flowers of the past
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