Your rose is dead

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!