Rose of Mâché

Oh flower of an old age face 

Laid on the foam and quilt;

Looked so unwell upon disgrace; 

Left lying, left in guilt!

Your flesh's like a thousand petal,

Your body that's erectly green,

Your whole's as old as time pedestal-

With-it-ness beauty unseen. 

Oh flower I as held you in the air-

Is so light and weak and lifeless! 

Like no other flower could give your heir, 

For your red and green were thornless. 

As I lay you down as careless as I am, 

But sincerely meant the hold, 

Oh ornament in palm 

So harmless yet useless and old. 

Oh! No sweetness is in you

Nor fragrance that you carry, 

For you're so ill with dew;

No produce for merry.

Oh flower deprived of bloom,

Your loveliness had lost dignity 

For you were damped in gloom 

Thus filled with dusts' insanity!

Oh rose of disgraced feature! 

Your beauty's behold astray. 

For you are a lifeless creature, 

For you are an art of Mâché.