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 theeBetween the hedgerow thorns, and take awayAn 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, becauseIt 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 theeMore love, dead rose! than to such roses boldAs Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!
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