XX

All my dead roses! Now I lay them here,

Shrined in a beryl cup. The mysteries

Of their sweet hauntings and their witcheries

Are not more subtle than this jewel clear,

Are not more cold and dead. The winter's spear

Has fallen on their heart, a heart so wise

With lore of love. Dead roses. Beauty lies

Hid in a perfume still supremely dear.

Roses of love, time killed you one by one,

Laughed at my pains as sad I gathered up

All the fair petals banished from the sun.

Witness my triumph — how the dead loves bless

Life — from my heart, which is their beryl cup,

Crowning the winter of my loneliness.