A Worn Rose By Lola Ridge

Where To-Day Would A Dainty Buyer Imbibe Your Scented Juice, Pale Ruin With A Heart Of Fire; Drain Your Succulence With Her Lips, Grown Sapless From Much Use... Make Minister Of Her Desire A Chalice Cup Where No Bee Sips - Where No Wasp Wanders In? Close To Her White Flesh Housed An Hour, One Held You... Her Spent Form Drew On Yours For Its Wasted Dower - What Favour Could She Do You More? Yet, Of All Who Drink Therein, None Know It Is The Warm Odorous Heart Of A Ravished Flower Tingles So In Her Mouth'S Red Core...