 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
292
ROSA HESTERNA.
Yes, my love, it was fresh and glowing,
Blooming and beautiful,—yesterday!
Now its odor is sickly, its petals are going,
Its beauty is vanished—throw it away!
Pray, don't thrust it under my nose!
Who can endure a yesterday's rose?
Blooming and beautiful,—yesterday!
Now its odor is sickly, its petals are going,
Its beauty is vanished—throw it away!
Pray, don't thrust it under my nose!
Who can endure a yesterday's rose?
I cannot deny your pretty sayings—
“It gave its life, and died in your hand,”
And “There are no deaths without decayings;”—
But the dying of roses who can stand?
The sweeter the odor the worse the decay;
And a yesterday's rose!—oh, throw it away!
“It gave its life, and died in your hand,”
And “There are no deaths without decayings;”—
But the dying of roses who can stand?
The sweeter the odor the worse the decay;
And a yesterday's rose!—oh, throw it away!
Gratitude,—pity,—sense of duty?
Oh, my dear, don't talk such prose!
If duty don't rhyme, as you say, to beauty,
Does yesterday's odor haunt yesterday's rose?
To-morrow, perhaps, I shall throw you away!
Perhaps, to-morrow, but not to-day.
Oh, my dear, don't talk such prose!
If duty don't rhyme, as you say, to beauty,
Does yesterday's odor haunt yesterday's rose?
To-morrow, perhaps, I shall throw you away!
Perhaps, to-morrow, but not to-day.
Now, while your lips are fresh as roses,
Kiss me, for preaching becomes you not!
Time for his wisdom his penance imposes;
When things are ripe they begin to rot.
And our loves and our roses, when they decay,
However we sigh, must be thrown away.
Kiss me, for preaching becomes you not!
293
When things are ripe they begin to rot.
And our loves and our roses, when they decay,
However we sigh, must be thrown away.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |