Explore "Sonnets" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.