ROSA IGNOTA
And thy scented breath
That only may be known in trancéd death
To me ?—
Yea! And to all those
That worship thee, my Rose,
My Rose! My Rose! My Rose!
For thou dost glance through all the veils of life,
Lending thy light unwon,
O subtlest syren thou, who wouldst entrance the sun!
Behind what secret hill shall I find thee?
In what chains shall I bind thee?
O Rose! Wert thou but mine
I would blind thee
With the sacred sign
Of five,
Making thee mine.
Alive
Thou wouldst kill me,
But dead, dead thou wouldst fill me
With the low breath I seek, and I should be
The incarnate spring’s gold immortality.
Rose of the mire
Where courses sacred fire. . . .
Oh! In what far land
Shall I weave thee a garland
That shall contain thee,
And shall not contain thee?
That shall restrain thee,
And shall not restrain thee?
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