INSCRIBED TO J. A. WHISTLER
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White rose in red rose-gardenIs not so white;Snowdrops that plead for pardonAnd pine for frightBecause the hard East blowsOver their maiden rowsGrow not as this face grows from pale to bright. Behind the veil, forbidden,Shut up from sight,Love, is there sorrow hidden,Is there delight?Is joy thy dower or grief,White rose of weary leaf,Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light? Soft snows that hard winds hardenTill each flake biteFill all the flowerless gardenWhose flowers took flightLong since when summer ceased,And men rose up from feast,And warm west wind grew east, and warm day night.
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