Last Rose

Bowing to the ground with Morozova,
Dancing with the head of a lover,
Flying from Dido's pyre in smoke
To burn with Joan at the stake—
 
Lord! can't you see I'm weary
Of this rising and dying and living.
Take it all, but once more bring me close
To sense the freshness of this crimson rose.

Komarovo, 1962

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