IT is so late! Down all our days are set November and the snows; Yet now, when we are ready to forget, For both has blown a rose. Right well we know nor you nor I can make A blaze of one lean spark; And it were all in vain for us to take This candle to the dark. Now what, in truth, the fitting word to say, And what the proper fate, For growing red on a November day, For being a rose so late? Oh, must we pluck it, sweet though come to dust, A moment hold it fast? Or leave it to the gathering of the gust? -- A rose, but at the last! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEDICATION IN THESE DAY by HAYDEN CARRUTH SPRING BLIZZARD by JAMES GALVIN WATERS OF BABYLON by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 26. MID-RAPTURE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS; A LEGEND OF BLOIS by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM WRITTEN ON A GLOOMY DAY, IN SICKNESS. THACKWOOD, 4TH JUNE, 1786 by SUSANNA BLAMIRE |