Poetry Archives

Thy petals yet are closely curled,
 Rose of the world,
Around their scented, golden core;
Nor yet has Summer purpled o’er
Thy tender clusters that begin
 To swell within
The dewy vine-leaves’ early screen
 Of sheltering green.

O hearts that are Love’s helpless prey,
 While yet you may,
Fly, ere the shaft is on the string!
The fire that now is smouldering
Shall be the conflagration soon
 Whose paths are strewn
With torment of blanched lips and eyes
 That agonize.