 | Sonnets |  |
62
I.FALLEN FROM GRACE.
SLEEP, half-blown rose, against my lady's breast,
Rocked by my lady's heart and rhythmic breath,
Sleep on, sweet rose, awaiting sweeter death,
Such cradle may beseem a rose's rest.
Nay, hapless one, thou wakest dispossest;
Swooning for joy, or overborne of pride,
I see thee from thy snowy summit glide,
Low on the common earth to die unblest.
Rocked by my lady's heart and rhythmic breath,
Sleep on, sweet rose, awaiting sweeter death,
Such cradle may beseem a rose's rest.
Nay, hapless one, thou wakest dispossest;
Swooning for joy, or overborne of pride,
I see thee from thy snowy summit glide,
Low on the common earth to die unblest.
I stoop to lift thee, and I turn aside,
I dare not touch thee with a furtive hand,
I dare not keep thee wanting her command,
Nor bow before the holy thing I hide!
But here I wait and watch, here take my stand,
None else shall seize a joy to me denied.
I dare not touch thee with a furtive hand,
I dare not keep thee wanting her command,
Nor bow before the holy thing I hide!
But here I wait and watch, here take my stand,
None else shall seize a joy to me denied.
63
II.UNDER THE ROSE.
DIE, half-blown rose, upon a grateful heart,
Whose life is quickened by thy ebbing breath;
Nay, thus to die were for a rose no death—
Live of my life the subtlest, keenest part!
I could have seen thee, precious as thou art,
Fade at my feet; but not to have thee blown
Of any breath less reverent than mine own,
My hand was fain a ruder hand to thwart.
Whose life is quickened by thy ebbing breath;
Nay, thus to die were for a rose no death—
Live of my life the subtlest, keenest part!
I could have seen thee, precious as thou art,
Fade at my feet; but not to have thee blown
Of any breath less reverent than mine own,
My hand was fain a ruder hand to thwart.
And now, for fear my trespass should be known,
I do bestow thee where no eye may come,
I take thee to my heart, for thou art dumb,
And canst not mock my madness, or my moan;
If of my folly thou dost mount the sum,
Just sorrow will too soon my wrong atone.
I do bestow thee where no eye may come,
I take thee to my heart, for thou art dumb,
And canst not mock my madness, or my moan;
If of my folly thou dost mount the sum,
Just sorrow will too soon my wrong atone.
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