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Pot-Pourri

All my dead roses! Now I lay them here, Shrined in a beryl cup. The mysteries Of their sweet hauntings and their witcheries Are not more subtle than this jewel clear, Are not more cold and dead. The winter's spear Has fallen on their heart, a heart so wise With lore of love. Dead roses. Beauty lies Hid in a perfume still supremely dear.

Roses of love, time killed you one by one, Laughed at my pains as sad I gathered up All the fair petals banished from the sun. Witness my triumph--how the dead loves bless Life--from my heart, which is their beryl cup, Crowning the winter of my loneliness.