YOUR silken fringed lids unclose On which some maiden dream doth fall, I am the spectre of the Rose You wore at yester evening's ball. You picked me when besprinkled o'er With silver pearl drops of the rain, And through the dance in radiance bore Until the morning dawned again. O you! who doomed me thus to die, Think not to put me now to flight, Your bed my ghost will hover nigh And dance around you all the night; Yet claim I not for life so lost Masses or dirges, tears or sighs, This gentle fragrance is my ghost; And I am come from Paradise. Such death can never pity claim, But only envy, I aver; How many a one would wish the same, Since your neck was my sepulchre. On the snow white where I repose, A poet pressed a kiss, and writ This epitaph--'Here lies a Rose So blessed all kings may envy it.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 26 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A CHRISTMAS CAROL (1) by GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON SUMMER MATURES by HELENE JOHNSON PROSOPOPOIA, OR MOTHER HUBBERDS TALE by EDMUND SPENSER TO IRELAND IN THE COMING TIMES by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS MOCK EPITAPH ON MR. AND MRS. ESTLIN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |