ROSE, that flushing hues didst borrow From my lute, Pink for joy and pale for sorrow, -- Now 'tis mute, Droop thine amber lids, and sleep In a tide of perfume deep, Till the sap of music creep To thy root. Dream; then die the death of roses With no pain, Till the yellowing wreck uncloses In the rain, And the ghost of music springs On its dim gray moth-like wings To my lute's neglected strings Once again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A LITTLE INVISIBLE BEING WHO IS EXPECTED SOON TO BECOME VISIBLE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN by WILLIAM MCKENDREE CARLETON PICCADILLY CIRCUS AT NIGHT: STREETWALKERS by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT by ALEXANDER POPE A MORTIFYING MISTAKE by ANNA MARIA PRATT AMERICA by JAMES MONROE WHITFIELD |