 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
230
THE DYING ROSE.
Not for thy beauty, dying rose,
Dost thou upon my breast recline,
Thy short and silent life to close
So near the latent spring of mine.
Dost thou upon my breast recline,
Thy short and silent life to close
So near the latent spring of mine.
But for thy perfume sweet, my flower,
I chose thee as my bosom friend;
And sweetest in thy saddest hour,
The offerings from thy heart ascend!
I chose thee as my bosom friend;
And sweetest in thy saddest hour,
The offerings from thy heart ascend!
I see thee take the hue of death;
And ne'er again thy tender form
Shall tremble at the tempest's breath,
Or bend and weep amid the storm.
And ne'er again thy tender form
Shall tremble at the tempest's breath,
Or bend and weep amid the storm.
For, like a broken phial, thou
Thine odors on the air dost pour:
They are thy passing spirit, now
That earth shall claim and hold no more!
Thine odors on the air dost pour:
They are thy passing spirit, now
That earth shall claim and hold no more!
Back to thy Maker, pure and free,
Unseen thy rising essence goes:
For this thou art more dear to me—
More lovely still, poor dying rose!
Unseen thy rising essence goes:
For this thou art more dear to me—
More lovely still, poor dying rose!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |