A Dead Rose

O Rose! who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;

But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,—

-     Kept seven years in a drawer—-thy titles shame thee.     The breeze that used to blow theeBetween the hedgerow thorns, and take awayAn odour up the lane to last all day,—-     If breathing now,—-unsweetened would forego thee.     The sun that used to smite thee,And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,—-     If shining now,—-with not a hue would light thee.     The dew that used to wet thee,And, white first, grow incarnadined, becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was,—-     If dropping now,—-would darken where it met thee.     The fly that lit upon thee,To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,—-     If lighting now,—-would coldly overrun thee.     The bee that once did suck thee,And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,—-     If passing now,—-would blindly overlook thee.     The heart doth recognise thee,Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,—-     Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.     Yes, and the heart doth owe theeMore love, dead rose! than to such roses boldAs Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!—-     Lie still upon this heart—-which breaks below thee!