A Reminiscence (Swinburne)

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
For works with similar titles, see A Reminiscence.

     The rose to the wind has yielded: all its leaves
       Lie strewn on the graveyard grass, and all their light
       And colour and fragrance leave our sense and sight
     Bereft as a man whom bitter time bereaves
     Of blossom at once and hope of garnered sheaves,
       Of April at once and August. Day to night
       Calls wailing, and life to death, and depth to height,
     And soul upon soul of man that hears and grieves.

     Who knows, though he see the snow-cold blossom shed,
       If haply the heart that burned within the rose,
     The spirit in sense, the life of life be dead?
       If haply the wind that slays with storming snows
     Be one with the wind that quickens? Bow thine head,
       O Sorrow, and commune with thine heart: who knows?