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?