 | Reuben and Other Poems |  |
INCENSE OF FLOWERS.
This rich abundance of the rose, its breath
On which I almost think my soul could live,
This sweet ambrosia, which even in death
Its leaves hold on to give.
On which I almost think my soul could live,
This sweet ambrosia, which even in death
Its leaves hold on to give.
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Whence is it? From dank earth or scentless air?
Or from the inner sanctuaries of heaven?
We probe the branch, the root—no incense there—
O God, whence is it given?
Or from the inner sanctuaries of heaven?
We probe the branch, the root—no incense there—
O God, whence is it given?
Is it the essence of the morning dew,
Or distillation of a purer sphere—
The breath of the immortals coming through
To us immortals here?
Or distillation of a purer sphere—
The breath of the immortals coming through
To us immortals here?
Exquisite mystery, my heart devours
The living inspiration, and I know
Sweet revelations with the breath of flowers
Into our beings flow.
The living inspiration, and I know
Sweet revelations with the breath of flowers
Into our beings flow.
| Reuben and Other Poems | |