The rose? No rose unless it disentwine
From Venus' wreath the while she bends to kiss
Her deathly love?
VII
Plain retrogression, this!
No, no: we poets go not back at all:
What you did we could do—from great to small
Sinking assuredly: if this world last
One moment longer when Man finds its Past
Exceed its Present—blame the Protoplast!