Roses and Ruins

ONCE more the rose, rally of English heart,
Blooms at the crater, at the ruined sill,
Where life left off, where love was left, where part
Of you or you stay still.
There is no public wrong or private grief
Can stain the colors, steal the proud design.
Autumn may snatch the petal and the leaf.
Now, the whole flower is yours and mine.
Lucky to live and greet the rose full blown,
Which blooms on death and flaunts the frightened hour;
To see the emblem of most inner bone
Clothed in the frail flesh of the flower.