ROSA IGNOTA
When for an age of craft-long loveliness
L lay mine head against thy beating heart,
And hear thy bosom throb, and soft sighs start
Through all thy hot young breath, ah! canst thou guess
How the artist longs to frame thy murmured “ yes”
In Pavian marble, wrought with subtle art
To immortal wonder, so to vend apart
The curtains of the tomb with easy stress ?
Ah! wert thou here, sweetheart, I would not sing
These foolish songs. I only turn to rime
When thou art absent ; for thine eyes would bring
A light too dazzling for mine eyes; but time,
When thou art from me, surely makes thee live
Foor ever, from mine aris a fugitive.
(1)
Red light and mirrored roses! Is the world
A mirror only of life? Is death the thing
Within the heart of life so deeply curled
That only at life’s end the thorn can sting?
It may be. Yet I only care to know
The imagery of the most fairest Rose ;
So that I dwell where that last Rose doth blow,
I can forget life in the garden-close.
Sweet wind of all the wide world’s empery!
Slow-purling streams of pure and fresh delight;
Within thy breath and voices can I see
White flesh, dark eyes, and longing dusky-bright :
I care not any more for death, O life,
Being slain by love with one thrust of the knife!