A Dead Rose
O
Rose!
who
dares
to
name
thee?
No
longer
roseate
now,
nor
soft,
nor
sweet;
But
pale,
and
hard,
and
dry,
as
stubble-wheat,—-
Kept
seven
years
in
a
drawer—-thy
titles
shame
thee.
The
breeze
that
used
to
blow
thee
Between
the
hedgerow
thorns,
and
take
away
An
odour
up
the
lane
to
last
all
day,—-
If
breathing
now,—-unsweetened
would
forego
thee.
The
sun
that
used
to
smite
thee,
And
mix
his
glory
in
thy
gorgeous
urn,
Till
beam
appeared
to
bloom,
and
flower
to
burn,—-
If
shining
now,—-with
not
a
hue
would
light
thee.
The
dew
that
used
to
wet
thee,
And,
white
first,
grow
incarnadined,
because
It
lay
upon
thee
where
the
crimson
was,—-
If
dropping
now,—-would
darken
where
it
met
thee.
The
fly
that
lit
upon
thee,
To
stretch
the
tendrils
of
its
tiny
feet,
Along
thy
leaf's
pure
edges,
after
heat,—-
If
lighting
now,—-would
coldly
overrun
thee.
The
bee
that
once
did
suck
thee,
And
build
thy
perfumed
ambers
up
his
hive,
And
swoon
in
thee
for
joy,
till
scarce
alive,—-
If
passing
now,—-would
blindly
overlook
thee.
The
heart
doth
recognise
thee,
Alone,
alone!
The
heart
doth
smell
thee
sweet,
Doth
view
thee
fair,
doth
judge
thee
most
complete,—-
Though
seeing
now
those
changes
that
disguise
thee.
Yes,
and
the
heart
doth
owe
thee
More
love,
dead
rose!
than
to
such
roses
bold
As
Julia
wears
at
dances,
smiling
cold!—-
Lie
still
upon
this
heart—-which
breaks
below
thee!
