Poem by Walter Savage Landor

Rose Aylmer

Ah what avails the sceptred race,
  Ah what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
  Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
  May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
  I consecrate to thee.

1. Past Ruin'd Ilion Helen Lives
2. The Poet Who Sleeps
3. Of Clementina
4. With Rosy Hand a Little Girl Prest Down
5. Leaf after Leaf Drops off, Flower after Flower

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