The professor and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I think the rosebush shyly pressed
Her fragrant head against my breast;
It jarred across my busy mood,
My grim and serious solitude;
And yet so sweet and soft it seemed,
Such tender incense towards me streamed,
I plucked and wore it; while I plied
My task, alone and heavy-eyed,
It seemed to nestle, soft and warm,
Above my heart, beside my arm,
And now, this morning, languid grown,
These sorry petals must be thrown

To some sad heap of tumbled things,
With sightless eyes and shattered wings,
To moulder into dust, beneath
The rich and fervid hands of death.
That is your story! now to sleep!
Yet some unslumbering memory keep
Of him whose spirit, rude and sour,
You sweetened through one patient hour.
For, Rose, to suffer, and to share
The heritage of man's despair,
Gives eyes, and souls, and almost wings
To lifeless dust and soulless things.
Enough! the fatal hour is sped
Above your pure and drooping head;
The secret of the dark who knows?
You know it, may not tell it, Rose.