Madison Julius Cawein

A Blown Rose

    Lay but a finger on
     That pallid petal sweet,
    It trembles gray and wan
     Beneath the passing feet.

    But soft! blown rose, we know
     A merriment of bloom,
    A life of sturdy glow, -
     But no such dear perfume.

    As some good bard, whose page
     Of life with beauty's fraught,
    Grays on to ripe old age
     Sweet-mellowed through with thought.

    So when his hoary head
     Is wept into the tomb,
    The mind, which is not dead,
     Sheds round it rare perfume.