Lucia (White) Jennison (“Owen Innsley”) (1850– )

AGAINST her mouth she pressed the rose, and there,

’Neath the caress of lips as soft and red

As its own petals, quick the bright bud spread

And oped, and flung its fragrance on the air.

It ne’er again a bud’s young grace can wear?

O love, regret it not! It gladly shed

Its soul for thee, and though thou kiss it dead

It does not murmur at a fate so fair.

Thus, once, thou breath’dst on me, till every germ

Of love and song broke into rapturous flower,

And sent a challenge upwards to the sky.

What if too swift fruition set a term

Too brief to all things? I have lived my hour,

And die contented, since for thee I die.