The Last Rose of Winter
…
November presses on in coldness, wind
And cruel light exposing death around
The garden. Life and beauty have been skinned,
The greens and pinks and whitest petals browned
To desolation, but one bush holds out.
It holds up high its courage on a stem
And holds up at its height, as if in flout,
One perfect, perfect bud, a diadem
Held up as if a marquess is waiting for
The regal crown above the head of king
Or queen to settle. This very night hoar
Frost threatens. It will curse with icy sting.
..Yet brightest purple petals open, slow
….To bow to anything like fatal snow.