When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past–
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove–
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. – Lord (George Gordon) Byron

O rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,–
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee. – Elizabeth Barrett Browning