 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
135
A BLOWN ROSE
Lay but a finger on
Its pallid petals sweet,
They flutter, gray and wan,
Beneath the passing feet.
Its pallid petals sweet,
They flutter, gray and wan,
Beneath the passing feet.
But, soft! blown rose, although
Departed is thy bloom,—
Thy bud, thy youth, I know,
Had no such sweet perfume.
Departed is thy bloom,—
Thy bud, thy youth, I know,
Had no such sweet perfume.
Thou art like one whose page
Of life is beauty-fraught,
Who grays to ripe old-age,
Sweet-mellowed through with thought:
Of life is beauty-fraught,
Who grays to ripe old-age,
Sweet-mellowed through with thought:
Who, when his hoary head
Is wept into the tomb,
With dreams, that are not dead,
Still gives his name perfume.
Is wept into the tomb,
With dreams, that are not dead,
Still gives his name perfume.
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |