A WORN ROSE

Where to-day would a dainty buyer

Imbibe your scented juice,

Pale ruin with a heart of fire;

Drain your succulence with her lips,

Grown sapless from much use...

Make minister of her desire

A chalice cup where no bee sips —

Where no wasp wanders in?

Close to her white flesh housed an hour,

One held you... her spent form

Drew on yours for its wasted dower —

What favour could she do you more?

Yet, of all who drink therein,

None know it is the warm

Odorous heart of a ravished flower

Tingles so in her mouth's red core...