Classic Poem

SHE SPEAKS

I F some fierce wind of hot and alien breath
Had swept the petals from my pure white rose,
I had been more content to watch the throes
Of such complete and devastating death,
Than to have seen it marred. For mortal faith
Accepts the wild tornado when it blows,
And, sooner than a bleeding wound disclose,
Lays on its buried hopes the final wreath.
But when the fitful gust of man's desire
Leaves on the spotless bloom of love a scar,
Barters its beauty for a transient hour
Of lesser love, that cannot claim the power
To wake within the breast a lasting fire —
Then must high Heaven mourn a fallen star!