|
“Oh 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 thee
Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away
An odor 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 shinning now, —-with not a hue would light thee.
The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It 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 his tiny feet,
Along thy leaf’s pure edges, after heat,—-
If lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.
The bee that once did such thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scare alive,—-
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.
The heart doth recognize 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 thee
More love, dead rose! Than to such roses bold
As Julia wear at dances, smiling cold!—-
Lie still upon this heart—-which breaks below thee!”
— Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Sonnets from the Portuguese and Other Love Poems)
 DamnBlackHeart · Tue Feb 19, 2013 @ 11:36pm · 0 Comments |
