Thy petals yet are closely curled, Rose of the world, Around their scented, golden core; Nor yet has Summer purpled o'er Thy tender clusters that begin To swell within The dewy vine-leaves' early screen Of sheltering green. O hearts that are Love's helpless prey, While yet you may, Fly, ere the shaft is on the string! The fire that now is smouldering Shall be the conflagration soon Whose paths are strewn With torment of blanched lips and eyes That agonize. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WHITE RABBIT by KAREN SWENSON THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER by RUPERT BROOKE MOTLEY by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE IKE WALTON'S PRAYER by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY SONNET by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE CITY DEAD-HOUSE by WALT WHITMAN |