AH what avails the sceptered race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LITTLE WHILE by SARA TEASDALE IN THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM by SARA TEASDALE ODES III, 29 by QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS A CHRISTMAS CAROL by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE HEATH-COCK by JOANNA BAILLIE |