Paroles

Here is a withered rose, pressed close between
The leaves of Browning’s lyrics; crimson stain—
The blood of rose or lyric? on the page—
One brittle, faded leaf upon the stem.
Dead, buried here; O long-forgotten flower,
Why shouldst thou on this sullen winter day
Come to thy resurrection? O pale leaves,
How red you grow, how sweet: how sing the birds.
How all the splendid passion of that June
When first you bloomed comes surging back, the while
The wind and snow beat on the frozen pane—
Warmth, wealth of blossoms, faces, hearts beloved!
Back to thy death, dear rose! Why shouldst thou live,
Since cold the hand that plucked thee, long ago?

(Luella Clark)