Let Fate do her worst;
there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past,
which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time
of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features
that joy used to wear.

Long, long be my heart
with such memories filled,
Like the vase in which roses
have once ben distilled.
You may break,
you may shatter the vase
if you will,
But the scent of the roses
will hang round it still.