 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
55
The End
I know that our fair rose was slain last night:
She is become a ruinous, delicate wraith,
And now she gives her perfumes up to Death;
No longer may she shine in the sweet light,
Or drink the dewey darkness; for the might
That breaks the hearts of kings and staggereth
Bold men, hath borne her down. “Take me,” she saith,
“Unto the old, dead roses, red and white.”
She is become a ruinous, delicate wraith,
And now she gives her perfumes up to Death;
No longer may she shine in the sweet light,
Or drink the dewey darkness; for the might
That breaks the hearts of kings and staggereth
Bold men, hath borne her down. “Take me,” she saith,
“Unto the old, dead roses, red and white.”
So, dearest, when the ultimate foul dun
And crawling knave into our hand shall thrust
His figure of accompt and greedy fine
For our poor gladness underneath the sun,
I shall come laughing to your gentle dust,
Or you will come like balm to comfort mine.
And crawling knave into our hand shall thrust
His figure of accompt and greedy fine
For our poor gladness underneath the sun,
I shall come laughing to your gentle dust,
Or you will come like balm to comfort mine.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |