Christina Rossetti — Summer is Ended

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose                         Scentless, colorless, this!         Will it ever be thus (who knows?)                                 Thus with our bliss,                 If we wait till the close? Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end                         Sooner, later, at last,         Which nothing can mar, nothing mend:                                 An end locked fast,                 Bent we cannot re-bend.