Classic Poem

 Your rose is dead ,
 They said,
The Grand Mogul —for so her splendour
Exceeded, masterful, it seemed her due
By dominant male titles to commend her:
 But I, her lover, knew
That myriad-coloured blackness, wrought with fire,
Was woman to the rage of my desire.
My rose was dead? She lay
Against the sulphur, lemon and blush-gray
Of younger blooms, transformed, morose,
Her shrivelling petals gathered round her close,
 And where before,
Coils twisted thickest at her core
A round, black hollow: it had come to pass
Hints of tobacco, leather, brass,
Confounded, gave her texture and her colour.
I watched her, as I watched her, growing duller,
 Majestic in recession
 From flesh to mould.
My rose is dead—I echo the confession,
And they pass to pluck another;
While I, drawn on to vague, prodigious pleasure,
 Fondle my treasure.
O sweet, let death prevail
Upon you, as your nervous outlines thicken
And totter, as your crimsons stale,
I feel fresh rhythms quicken,
Fresh music follows you. Corrupt, grow old,
Drop inwardly to ashes, smother
Your burning spices, and entoil
My senses till you sink a clod of fragrant soil!