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 the
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take awa
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, becaus
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 the
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bol
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!--
Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee
