Withered Roses

NOT waked by worth, nor marred by flaw,
Not won by good, nor lost by ill,
Love is its own and only law,
And lives and dies by its own will.
It was our fate, and not our sin,
That we should love, and love should win.

Not bound by oath, nor stayed by prayer,
Nor held by thirst of strong desire,
Love lives like fragrance in the air,
And dies as breaking waves expire.
’T was death, not falsehood, bade us part,—
The death of love, that broke my heart.

Not kind, as dreaming poets think,
Nor merciful, as sages say, —
Love heeds not where its victims sink,
When once its heart is torn away.
’T was nature, it was not disdain,
That made thee careless of my pain.

Not thralled by law, nor ruled by right,
Love keeps no audit with the skies:
Its star, that once is quenched in night,
Has set, — and never more will rise.
My soul is dead, by thee forgot,
And there’s no heaven where thou art not.

But happy he, though scathed and lone,
Who sees, afar, love’s fading wings, —
Whose seared and blighted soul has known
The splendid agony it brings!
No life that is, no life to be,
Can ever take the past from me!

Red roses, bloom for other lives —
Your withered leaves alone are mine!
Yet, not for all that time survives
Would I your heavenly gift resign,—
Now cold and dead, once warm and true,
The love that lived and died in you.