The Rose Without a Name
The orange rose hangs on. It does not know
(Though orange as its vanished mates since June
And through the whole mild summer) that its glow
Supposedly belongs to things that swoon
To death in autumn. Never having seen
The fall, its beauty is all innocence.
Unknowing loveliness has always been
Its character. It has no mortal sense.
Indeed its orange incense makes a bright
Pefume that, shed upon October air,
Seems almost able to persuade the light
That this is perfect spring and all is fair.
..We wish we knew the name of this warm bloom
…..As it so bravely opens to its doom.