 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
40
TO A YELLOW ROSE.
O flower of flowers, fit for Beauty's breast,To rise and fall upon a bosom fair,
Or sink in silent ecstasy and rest
Deep down amid the hollows of her hair,
Sweet places winged with odours all divine,
Soft nests wherein I long to twine my hands,
Whence beauty, queen of roses, bright as thine
Buds, blossoms, and at last in air expands;
For I have always felt the wealth of tresses,
Of certain deep dark tresses I have seen,
No wreath of rhymes, no written word expresses—
I approach the nearest to the thing I mean,
When I say that to my mind this wondrous hair
Seemeth to blossom into scent as fair.
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