ROSA IGNOTA
How can I know thee, O my secret Rose?
In the old enchanted palace of the Will
Still shall I bear the lilies under the moon,
The blood-rimmed lilies under the harvest moon?
But there are no more roses, no more roses,
And the ways stretch out, unending; no god knows
If thou shalt be reborn or late or soon.
O poet of the world! the agony closes.
Shall there be no more roses, no more roses
Under the immortal moon?
XX
THE KEY
THE sign of the lover is hidden in vain
From the eyes of the mage, from the sight of the sun:
The laughter of life and the pzean of pain,
The chords of the lyre and the answer of one.
The toil of the pilgrim shall never be done;
The love of the lover shall never be over:
For there is no end, ah! no end to the Way,
As there is no end to the love of the lover.
And there is no cry: but some god shall obey,
And there is no toil that shall ever know ending;
And there is no answer to life and to love,
The mystical union unblending and blending.
The pathway is set ’twixt the Eagle and Dove.
Gray world, the petals of the ensanguined Rose
Open at dusk, and with the daylight close,