Part 2 — THE MISSIVE
Reading edition
I that tremble at your feet Am a rose; Nothing dewier or more sweet Buds or blows; He that plucked me, he that threw me Breathed in fire his whole soul through me.
How the cold air is infused With the scent! See, this satin leaf is bruised— Bruised and bent, Lift me, lift the wounded blossom, Soothe it at your rosier bosom!
Frown not with averted eyes! Joy's a flower That is born a god, and dies In an hour. Take me, for the Summer closes, And your life is but a rose's.
Edmund Gosse [1849-1928]