ROSA DECIDUA 
 
“ O Rose, thou art sick ! 
 The invisible worm 
That flies in the night 
 In the howling storm 
Has found out thy bed 
 Of crimson joy, 
And his dark secret love 
 Does thy life destroy.”—BLAKE. 
 
ROSE of the World !   
If so, then what a world !   
What worm at its red heart lay curled 
From the beginning ?  Plucked and torn and trampled 
And utterly corrupt is she 
That was the queen-flower unexampled 
In gardens goodlier than Arcady. 
 
O Thou !  whose body was my lyre, whose soul 
Lay on my mouth like a live coal !   
This time thou hearest not my song ;  thine ears 
Are stopped with worse than death ;   
And all this wasted breath 
Of mine—those songs of six most memorable years 
Of ecstasy and agony—may not attain 
To charm thy being into love again. . . .