![]() | A book of Bristol sonnets | ![]() |
114
THE BLACK HELEBORE (CHRISTMAS ROSE),
AT DOWN HOUSE.
Five butterflies about a cup of gold,That suck thereout such philtres of repose,
Such ecstasies of love-land, that they close
Their wings to dream there is not any cold,
And commune with the enchanting juices hold!
Magician herb, I said, bright Christmas Rose,
December's darling, cousin of the snows,
Your's is the flower for lover's hand to fold!
For though thy petal butterflies shall fade,
Thy strange six-fingered leaves to dust return;
Who loves, of thee some secret spell may learn,
Thy roots of such cold earth such summer made!
Content to bloom, with no companion by;
At thine own thoughts to blush, and blushing die!
![]() | A book of Bristol sonnets | ![]() |