O pale pressed Rose-bud in the Book of Death, Where thou outlastest many a perfect rose That strews her petals at her full life's close Beneath November's violating breath; Too well thou heardest what the Spring wind saith To the small buds of which the gods compose Their fatal wreaths, and what May sings to those That shall not hear what Autumn uttereth. When Azrael turns slowly one by one The leaves of his great Book, by pale gleam lit, And sees thee whom he plucked by morn's bright sun. Perhaps, O Rose-bud, in that silent place, A wistful smile, as of regret, may flit O'er his inscrutable angelic face. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOPE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE LITTLE BOY FOUND, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE A SCHOOL ECLOGUE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD YOU, WHO HAVE SONS TO SPARE! by L. ALLEN BECK NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 6 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |