A Worn Rose
By LOLA RIDGE.
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 favor 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.
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