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,---

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