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Red Rose

WHY do your leaves uncurl invisibly ?
    Is it mere pride ?
When I behold your petals,
They lie immovably against your breast ;
    Or opened wide,
Your shield thrown wide.
But none may watch the unveiling of your pride.

Why do you die so soon, so certainly ?
    Death is disgrace ;
You should stay dying half your life ;
    Your drooping face
Gives you when dying your divinest face.
But death’s pale colours are your sole disgrace.

MLA citation:

Macdonald, Leila. “Red Rose.” The Yellow Book, vol. 4, January 1895, p. 143. Yellow Book Digital Edition, edited by Dennis Denisoff and Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2010-2014. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2019.