IT is so late! Down all our days are set November and the snows; Yet now, when we are ready to forget, For both has blown a rose. Right well we know nor you nor I can make A blaze of one lean spark; And it were all in vain for us to take This candle to the dark. Now what, in truth, the fitting word to say, And what the proper fate, For growing red on a November day, For being a rose so late? Oh, must we pluck it, sweet though come to dust, A moment hold it fast? Or leave it to the gathering of the gust? -- A rose, but at the last! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TOURNAMENT by SIDNEY LANIER ON A DEAD CHILD by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE BRIDGE: PROEM. TO BROOKLYN BRIDGE by HAROLD HART CRANE ECHO by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE PROPERZIA ROSSI by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS WHO WALKS WITH BEAUTY by DAVID MORTON |