ROSA IGNOTA
O riot of the gods! O thou!
O thou of the pale brow,
And pale, most pale, blue eyes,
Upon thy bosom
Oh, the bud and blossom!
The flaunting wanton leaps on the stage of the world,
And cries:
lam the love, the love that never dies,
Being born with the lover's death,
Yielding mine easy breath
Under the never-failing skies,
That fail not for shelter over the dim world.
And so am I closely curled
Upon myself, with petals still, still furled. .. .
Over the plains of Art with scornful feet
And trailing amber robes, a nymph of time
Floats, nimbly fleet
Before the vision,
And in derision
She mocks me for my rime,
Mocks me with song most sweet,
Most utterly sweet, and I,
Who have slain the shells
Of the gods who haunted me
And flaunted me,
Lie,
Listening to the spells
That she hath woven about me.
Yea! should she flout me,
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