A Blown Rose

Lay but a finger on Its pallid petals sweet, They flutter, gray and wan, Beneath the passing feet.

But, soft! blown rose, although Departed is thy bloom,-- Thy bud, thy youth, I know, Had no such sweet perfume.

Thou art like one whose page Of life is beauty-fraught, Who grays to ripe old-age, Sweet-mellowed through with thought:

Who, when his hoary head Is wept into the tomb, With dreams, that are not dead, Still gives his name perfume.