Madison 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.
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