page 18

Rose-Wreath

    Once again, roses,
we see you painted on the screen
of trees and azure-shadowed plain
and faintly purpled mountain-chain,
as in past years beholden.
  I go down to call them by name,
    all these my roses;
the crimson and the scarlet and the golden,
snow-white, ivory and flame
of sun-dying, and pink flush of prime;
    the great deep noble joy
    and the blush-tipped midget toy
      fit for a child’s posies.
In this early summertime
everywhere are wreaths and bowers
of roses sprung from eglantine
  man’s care and life’s caprice,
man’s art from earth’s experiment,
chief among a thousand flowers
  for the adornment of our peace.
    But what is this reminding pain?
    what weapon keen, kris, javelin,
    what arrow from an alien sphere
    pierces my serene content
    with deeper hurt than starts a tear?
    this silent, viewless weapon, whence?
      Beauty, for a wounding spear
        you take my roses!
page 19 Extreme predicament is this
of our terrene eminence,
of our estate the royal bane,
  we cannot know what a rose is
  until we betake us hence,
  but pray that sight may not be dimmed
  nor heart hard to new surprise,
  while spring rain and summer wind
  bring again the roses’ scent,
till such divine venom tips
and medicates your skilful dart,
Beauty, now in Death’s disguise,
silencing these stammering lips,
sealing these astonished eyes.
    that our sight closes
  on earth’s dear mummery,
to wake upon your counterpart,
        mirage roses,
where new-born lovely in the unveiled morn
is hailed by the clear eye for true,
        peace wears no rue
for past enchantment, and prepares no treachery,
and pleasure bears no sting, no spiky thorn,
        not like these my roses.