She seemed like the blue smoke of incense,
Rising tenuous, frail
Losing itself in the azure sky,
Leaving hardly a trail.
She passed like the blue smoke of incense
Which leaves behind but a scent,
Like that of a single blood red rose,
Whose every joy is spent.
Like that of a passing rose, which spreads
The subtle fragrance of pain.
She too left only this fragrance
To haunt my heart and brain.
Chas. Heitzman.