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Rose Aylmer
by Walter Savage Landor

Ah, what avails the sceptred race;
Ah, what the form divine.
What every virtue, every grace,
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see;
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
        
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Poem ID: 68610   Poem Posted: 1/27/2002
Viewed: 200012  Voted On: 1120  E-mailed: 91  Commented On: 3
 
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