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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE AESTHETE TO THE ROSE, by                    
First Line: "go, flaunting rose"
Last Line: "who are not sallow, sick, and spare!"


Go, flaunting Rose!
Tell her that wastes her love on thee,
That she nought knows
Of the New Cult, Intensity,
If sweet and fair to her you be.
Tell her that's young,
Or who in health and bloom takes pride,
That bards have sung
Of a new youth --at whose sad side
Sickness and pallor aye abide.
Small is the worth
Of Beauty in crude charms attired.
She must shun mirth,
Have suffered, fruitlessly desired,
And wear no flush by hope inspired.
Then die, that she
May learn that Death is passing fair;
May read in thee
How little of Art's praise they share,
Who are not sallow, sick, and spare!







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