Rose-Morals
I. -- Red.
Would that my songs might beWhat roses make by day and night --Distillments of my clod of miseryInto delight.
Soul, could'st thou bare thy breastAs yon red rose, and dare the day,All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest?Say yea -- say yea!
Ah, dear my Rose, good-bye;The wind is up; so; drift away.That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly,I strive, I pray.
II. -- White.
Soul, get thee to the heartOf yonder tuberose: hide thee there --There breathe the meditations of thine artSuffused with prayer.
Of spirit grave yet light,How fervent fragrances uprisePure-born from these most rich and yet most whiteVirginities!
Mulched with unsavory death,Grow, Soul! unto such white estate,That virginal-prayerful art shall be thy breath,Thy work, thy fate.
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