Author Josephine Preston Peabody I would not now give up one hurt,In this far light of morning;Each one a rose, a blood-red rose,A rose for my adorning.Yes, and the pallor of old grief,Too lowly even for scorning,Is warmed into a breathing rose,A rose for my adorning. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 2 (2 votes) Rate Log in or register to post comments