A Worn Rose

Where to-day would a dainty buyer Imbibe your scented juice, Pale ruin with a heart of fire; Drain your succulence with her lips, Grown sapless from much use... Make minister of her desire A chalice cup where no bee sips - Where no wasp wanders in? Close to her white flesh housed an hour, One held you... her spent form Drew on yours for its wasted dower - What favour could she do you more? Yet, of all who drink therein, None know it is the warm Odorous heart of a ravished flower Tingles so in her mouth's red core...