The winter rose I saw
On its thin stem of glass
Shattered upon the grass,
Slain by its secret flaw
Red tarnished into grey
Recalls its world anew,
How its bright spectre flew
From endless blue to blue
Into an azure day.
Still, still, its beauties lost,
Despised, unloved, forsaken
Can charm the dawn to waken
In an arrested frost.
But ashen hues suffice
(The long ignominy
Of inert memory)
Who stemmed from that great tree,
That flamed with fire and ice.
Where is that look of fire?
Form, fragrance, height, and hue
The flame’s expiring blue,
Life’s thin electric wire?
Midsummer eyes will dress
Your elegaic dream,
Caught in a moving stream
Of unborn loveliness,
The dead will rise and bless!
(Marya Zaturenska)
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Based on Topics: Life Poems, Nature Poems, Dreams Poems, Fire Poems, Inertia PoemsBased on Keywords: stemmed