138 
ROSA DECIDUA 
 
 
Of life that spring in me are fed 
Not even on the more of her decay. 
They spring from other roots. 
Now I am cleansed of her, I am so to say 
A man part paralysed.  One limb is dead 
In feeling as in motion.  This remains 
To ask :  Will all catch death—how soon ?  This head 
Excites its miserable brains 
To think the word it knows by intellect 
To be the right word—pity !  Then reflect :   
“ Pitiful !  Pitiful !  most pitiful !   
The pity of it !  Think of the love past, 
Blossoms too beautiful !   
Think of the hardships conquered comrade-wise !   
Think of the babe and its most piteous end ! ” 
—All these things sound like lies. 
I do not comprehend 
Anything of them—“ Pity !  pity !  pity ! ” 
’Tis like the dripping of some stagnant rain 
From the housetops of a ruined city 
Upon the flagstones.  Not one petal clings 
Upon the stalk of life or memory.  Stain 
Not one pale thought with blushes ;  my soul’s dead 
As a corpse flung out of the tideway on 
The stinking flats of London mud.  The springs 
Are dry beyond appeal ;  dull grey like lead 
(And heavier) is my soul’s carrion. 
If she came pleasing now, pure passionate, and 
sane, 
I would not take her back again.