 | The Autumn Garden |  |
61
Songs of Roses
63
Rose Fantasia
Rose, that flushing hues did'st borrow
From my lute,
Pink for joy and pale for sorrow,—
Now 'tis mute,
Droop thine amber lids, and sleep
In a tide of perfume deep,
Till the sap of music creep
To thy root.
From my lute,
Pink for joy and pale for sorrow,—
Now 'tis mute,
Droop thine amber lids, and sleep
In a tide of perfume deep,
Till the sap of music creep
To thy root.
Dream; then die the death of roses
With no pain,
Till the yellowing wreck uncloses
In the rain,
And the ghost of music springs
On its dim gray moth-like wings
To my lute's neglected strings
Once again.
With no pain,
Till the yellowing wreck uncloses
In the rain,
And the ghost of music springs
On its dim gray moth-like wings
To my lute's neglected strings
Once again.
64
The Missive
I that tumble at your feet
Am a rose;
Nothing dewier or more sweet
Buds or blows.
He that plucked me, he that threw me
Breathed in fire his whole soul through me.
Am a rose;
Nothing dewier or more sweet
Buds or blows.
He that plucked me, he that threw me
Breathed in fire his whole soul through me.
How the cold air is infused
With the scent!
See, this satin leaf is bruised,—
Bruised and bent.
Lift me, lift the wounded blossom,
Soothe it at your rosier bosom!
With the scent!
See, this satin leaf is bruised,—
Bruised and bent.
Lift me, lift the wounded blossom,
Soothe it at your rosier bosom!
Frown not with averted eyes!
Joy's a flower,
That is born a god, and dies
In an hour.
Take me, for the summer closes,
And your life is but a rose's.
Joy's a flower,
That is born a god, and dies
In an hour.
Take me, for the summer closes,
And your life is but a rose's.
65
The Rose of Sorrow
The royal rose our sovereign bard bewitches;
Three roses crown his lyre;
The red is Conquest; and the yellow, Riches;
The damask rose, Desire.
Three roses crown his lyre;
The red is Conquest; and the yellow, Riches;
The damask rose, Desire.
But o'er the airs with which his strings are ringing,
One rose hangs out of sight;
Of the white rose he never dreams of singing,—
For sorrow's rose is white.
One rose hangs out of sight;
Of the white rose he never dreams of singing,—
For sorrow's rose is white.
66
The Fallen Rose
Life, like an overweighted shaken rose,
Falls, in a cloud of colour, to my feet;
Its petals strew my first November snows,
Too soon, too fleet!
Falls, in a cloud of colour, to my feet;
Its petals strew my first November snows,
Too soon, too fleet!
'Twas my own breath had blown the leaves apart,
My own hot eyelids stirred them where they lay;
It was the tumult of my own bright heart
Broke them away.
My own hot eyelids stirred them where they lay;
It was the tumult of my own bright heart
Broke them away.
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