A Worn Rose

Where to-day would a dainty buyer Imbibe your scented juice, Pale ruin with a heart of fire; Drain your succulence with her lips, Grown sapless from much use... Make minister of her desire A chalice cup where no bee sips— Where no wasp wanders in? Close to her white flesh housed an hour, One held you... her spent form Drew on yours for its wasted dower— What favour could she do you more? Yet, of all who drink therein, None know it is the warm Odorous heart of a ravished flower Tingles so in her mouth's red core...