  Poor withered rose and dry, Skeleton of a rose, Risen to testify To love’s sad close: Treasured for love’s sweet sake, That of joy past Thou might’st again awake Memory at last: Yet is thy perfume sweet, Thy petals red Yet tell of summer heat, And the gay bed: Yet yet recall the glow Of the gazing sun, When at thy bush we two Joined hands in one. Thou hast not wept The change that passed between Whilst thou hast slept. To me thou seemest yet The dead dream’s thrall: While I live and forget Dream, truth and all. Thou art more fresh than I, Rose, sweet and red: Salt on my pale cheeks lie The tears I shed. |
|
