The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (4.1895)

Red Rose

By Leila Macdonald

Why do your leaves uncurl invisibly ?

Is it mere pride ?

When I behold your petals,

They lie immovably against your breast ;

Or opened wide,

Your shield thrown wide.

But none may watch the unveiling of your pride.

Why do you die so soon, so certainly ?

Death is disgrace;

You should stay dying half your life ;

Your drooping face

Gives you when dying your divinest face.

But death’s pale colours are your sole disgrace.