YOUR rose is dead - , They said. The Grand Mogul - for so her splendour Exceeded, masterful, it seemed her due By dominant male titles to commend her : But I, her lover, knew That myriad-coloured blackness, wrought with fire. Was woman to the rage of my desire. My rose was dead ? She lay Against the sulphur, lemon and blush-gray Of younger blooms, transformed, morose. Her shrivelling petals gathered round her close, And where before, Coils twisted thickest at her core A round, black hollow : it had come to pass Hints of tobacco, leather, brass, Confounded, gave her texture and her colour. I watched her, as I watched her, growing duller, Majestic in recession From flesh to mould. My rose is dead - I echo the confession. And they pass to pluck another ; While I, drawn on to vague, prodigious pleasure, Fondle my treasure. O sweet, let death prevail Upon you, as your nervous outlines thicken And totter, as your crimsons stale, I feel fresh rhythms quicken. Fresh music follows you. Corrupt, grow old, Drop inwardly to ashes, smother Your burning spices, and entoil My senses till you sink a clod of fragrant soil ! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A GARDEN SONG by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE FORSAKEN by C. HAMILTON AIDE EYES AND LIPS by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER SONNET DEDICATORY by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER NOT TO BE MINISTERED TO by MALTBIE DAVENPORT BABCOCK MARCH: A BULL ON THE HORIZON by A. G. BECKMANN |