The golden hinges of the year have turned— <br />Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time <br />Have come, and gone; and on the threshold stands <br />The withered Winter, stretching forth his hands <br />To take my rose from me;—which he will wear <br />On his bleak bosom, all the bitter months <br />While the earth and I remain disconsolate. <br />My rose!—with the soft vesture of her leaves, <br />Gathered all round the secrets of her heart <br />In crimson fragrant folds,—within her bower <br />Of fair fresh green, guarded with maiden thorns. <br />O withered Winter! keep my blossom safe! <br />Thou shalt not kiss her with thy blue cold lips, <br />Nor pinch her in thy bony grip,—nor drop <br />More than one tiny sparkling diamond, <br />From thy cold carcanet, upon her cheek: <br />But lay soft snow fur round her—and above <br />Her precious head, make thy skies blue and clear, <br />And set her in the sun;—O withered Winter! <br />Be tender of my rose, and harm her not. <br />Alas, my flower, farewell!<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/parting-36/
