'O rose, who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;

But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble wheat, —

Kept seven years in a drawer — thy titles shame thee.

 The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away

An odour up the lane, to last all day,  —

If breathing now,  — with not a hue would light thee. 

 The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grow incarnadined, because

It lay upon thee where the crimson was,  —

If dropping now,  — would darken where it met thee. 

 ... The heart doth recognise thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,

Doth view thee fair, doth judge you most complete, —

Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.'

- fragment, A Dead Rose, Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 rose

'Winter Rose' is a seasonal gallery by

Durham Vintage Photography | Autumnblue Studios