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Pot-pourri Post by :55292 Category :Poems Author :Helen Hay Whitney Date :October 2011 Read :3233

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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.

(The end)
Helen Hay Whitney's poem: Pot-Pourri

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Eadem Semper Eadem Semper

Eadem Semper
How shall I hold you? By a scimitar Of flashing wit suspended o'er your head, Oh, my Beloved? Or with lips rose-red Lure you to Lethe? Shall I stand afar, Pale and remote and distant as a star, Challenging love? Or by a scarlet thread Jealousy's wiles, beguile by scorn and dread? Wounding the heart I love with hateful scar. Nay, I can take no action, play no play; All my wit falters when I hear you speak, All my wise guile with which your wooing strove

After Rain After Rain

After Rain
The country road at lonely close of day Rests for a while from the long stress of rain; Dripping and bowed, the green walls of the lane Reflect no glistening light, no colors gay Has dying Summer left. The sky is gray, As though the weeping had not eased the pain. The Autumn is not yet, and all in vain Seems Summer's life--a blossom cast away. The air is hushed, save in the emerald shade The rain still drips and stirs each fretting leaf To soft insistence of its