Rosa Mundi

— 4 — That would in words flash forth the holiest heaven That to the immortal God of Gods is given, And, tongue-tied, stammers forth — my wife ! I am dumb with rapture of thy loveliness. All metres match and mingle ; all words tire ; All lights, all sounds, all perfumes, all gold stress Of the honey-palate, all soft strokes expire In abject agony of broken sense To hymn the emotion tense Of somewhat higher — O ! how highest ! — than all Their mystery : fall, O fall, Ye unavailing eagle-flights of song ! O wife ! these do thee wrong. Thou knowest how I was blind ; How for mere minutes thy pure presence Was nought ; was ill-defined ; A smudge across the mind, Drivelling in its brutal essence, Hog-wallowing in poetry, Incapable of thee. Ah ! when the minutes grew to hours, And yet the beast, the fool, saw flowers And loved them, watched the moon rise, took delight In perfumes of the summer night,