—     13     — 
 
O living Rose !  O dowered with subtle dew 
Of love.  The tiny eternities of time, 
Caught between flying seconds, are well filled 
With these futilities of fragrant rhyme : 
In Love’s retort distilled, 
In sunrays of fierce loathing purified, 
In moonrays of pure longing tried, 
And gathered after many moons of labour 
Into the compass of a single day : 
And wrought into continuous tune, 
One laughter with one langour for its neighbor, 
One thought of winter with one word of June, 
Muddled and mixed in mere dismay, 
Chiselled with the cunning chisel of despair, 
Found wanting, well aware 
Of its own fault, even insistent 
Thereon ;  some fragrance rare 
Stolen from my lady’s hair 
Perchance redeeming now and then the distant 
Fugitive tunes ;  —  Ah !  Love !  the hour is over ! 
The moon is up, the vigil overpast. 
 
Call me to thee at last, 
O Rose, O perfect miracle lover, 
Call me !  I hear thee though it be across 
The abyss of the whole universe, 
Though not a sign escape, delicious loss ! 
Though hardly a wish rehearse