Robert Seymour Bridges

* * *

Poor withered rose and dry,
  Skeleton of a rose,
Risen to testify
  To love’s sad close:

Treasured for love’s sweet sake,
  That of joy past
Thou might’st again awake
  Memory at last.

Yet is thy perfume sweet;
  Thy petals red
Yet tell of summer heat,
  And the gay bed:

Yet, yet recall the glow
  Of the gazing sun,
When at thy bush we two
  Joined hands in one.

But, rose, thou hast not seen,
  Thou hast not wept
The change that passed between,
  Whilst thou hast slept.

To me thou seemest yet
  The dead dream’s thrall:
While I live and forget
  Dream, truth and all.

Thou art more fresh than I,
  Rose, sweet and red:
Salt on my pale cheeks lie
  The tears I shed.