Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861) A Dead Rose A Woman's Shortcomings Change Upon Change Inclusions ... The Lady's Yes
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 thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An 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, 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 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 | |
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