Classic Poem

Yes , my love, it was fresh and glowing,
Blooming and beautiful,—yesterday!
Now its odour is sickly, its petals are going,
Its beauty is vanished—throw it away!
Pray, don't thrust it under my nose!
Who can endure a yesterday's rose?

I cannot deny your pretty sayings—
“It gave its life, and died in your hand,”
And “There are no deaths without decaying;”—
But the dying of roses who can stand?
The sweeter the odour the worse the decay;
And a yesterday's rose!—oh, throw it away!

Gratitude,—pity,—sense of duty?
Oh, my dear, don't talk such prose!
If duty don't rhyme, as you say, to beauty,
Does yesterday's odour haunt yesterday's rose?
To-morrow, perhaps, I shall throw you away!
Perhaps, to-morrow, but not to-day.

Now, while your lips are fresh as roses,
Kiss me, for preaching becomes you not!
Time for his wisdom his penance imposes;
When things are ripe they begin to rot.
And our loves and our roses, when they decay,
However we sigh, must be thrown away.