"I’ll take that fainting rose Out of his breast; perhaps some sigh of his Lives in the gyre of its kiss-coloured leaves. O pretty rose, hast thou thy flowery passions? Then put thyself into a scented rage, And breathe on me some poisonous revenge. For it was I, thou languid, silken blush, Who orphaned thy green family of thee, In their closed infancy: therefore receive My life, and spread it on thy shrunken petals, And give to me thy pink, reclining death."