A Blown Rose

Lay but a finger on
Its pallid petals sweet,
They flutter, gray and wan,
Beneath the passing feet.

But, soft! blown rose, although
Departed is thy bloom,--
Thy bud, thy youth, I know,
Had no such sweet perfume.

Thou art like one whose page
Of life is beauty-fraught,
Who grays to ripe old-age,
Sweet-mellowed through with thought:

Who, when his hoary head
Is wept into the tomb,
With dreams, that are not dead,
Still gives his name perfume.