Winter Rose


 '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. 

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 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

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'Winter Rose' is a seasonal gallery by

Durham Vintage Photography | Autumnblue Studios