They Call It Love Lies Bleeding! Rather Say

They call it Love lies bleeding! rather say
That in this crimson Flower Love bleeding droops,
A Flower how sick in sadness! Thus it stoops
With languid head unpropped from day to day
From month to month, life passing not away.
Even so the dying Gladiator leans
On mother earth, and from his patience gleans
Relics of tender thoughts, regrets that stay
A moment and are gone. O fate-bowed flower!
Fair as Adonis bathed in sanguine dew,
Of his death-wound, that Lover’s heart was true
As heaven, who pierced by scorn in some lone bower
Could press thy semblance of unpitied smart
Into the service of his constant heart.