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Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass


You came to me bearing bright roses,
 Red like the wine of your heart;
You twisted them into a garland
 To set me aside from the mart.
Red roses to crown me your lover,
 And I walked aureoled and apart.

Enslaved and encircled, I bore it,
 Proud token of my gift to you.
The petals waned paler, and shriveled,
 And dropped; and the thorns started through.
Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover,
 A diadem woven with rue.