by Hervey Allen
This rose in amber bloomed when earth was young,
When man was not yet here, perhaps, or blind,
A thought of perfect beauty dwelt upon
Once by the natural mind.
So may our poems be in days to come
When all the winds that stir their leaves are dumb.
Ephemeral perfume they need not distill;
No one will care to ask what bees they drew,
In what dim summer of the soul they blew.
The rose will be in amber calm and clear.
Last updated January 14, 2019