 | Passion-Flowers |  |
178
WHAT I SAID TO THE DYING ROSE, AND WHAT SHE SAID TO ME.
Sweet Rose, it is thy dying day!
Ere nightfall thou must pass away,
And my soul for thee grieves;
For I have found a record dear,
Traced by the hand I love and fear,
Upon thy silken leaves.
Ere nightfall thou must pass away,
And my soul for thee grieves;
For I have found a record dear,
Traced by the hand I love and fear,
Upon thy silken leaves.
Thou hast so smiled upon my heart,
That I can scarcely from thee part
Without a tear of sorrow;
For I shall come thy cup to kiss,
And my beloved companion miss,
Forever gone, to-morrow.
That I can scarcely from thee part
Without a tear of sorrow;
For I shall come thy cup to kiss,
And my beloved companion miss,
Forever gone, to-morrow.
It seemed to me thy lingering
Made Autumn lovelier than Spring,
With a sad loveliness;
On thy pale leaves a golden glow
Spake of the sunlight on the snow,
Of joy in bitterness.
Made Autumn lovelier than Spring,
With a sad loveliness;
179
Spake of the sunlight on the snow,
Of joy in bitterness.
Thy little hour of beauty's o'er,
And I, like thee, shall be no more
Ere many days are numbered;
But I shall rise to regions blest,
And so will all who on the breast
Of holy faith have slumbered.
And I, like thee, shall be no more
Ere many days are numbered;
But I shall rise to regions blest,
And so will all who on the breast
Of holy faith have slumbered.
Is there another life for thee,
That thou so uncomplainingly
Dost languish unto death?
Oh, tell me, does an unseen Hand
Bear to the bright and better land
Thy tender parting breath?
That thou so uncomplainingly
Dost languish unto death?
Oh, tell me, does an unseen Hand
Bear to the bright and better land
Thy tender parting breath?
Thy fragrance dropped from angels' wings;
Thy beauty from the same source springs
With all I love and cherish;
The hills, the plains, the stars, the sun,
The fair forms I have looked upon,
That change, but cannot perish.
Thy beauty from the same source springs
With all I love and cherish;
The hills, the plains, the stars, the sun,
The fair forms I have looked upon,
That change, but cannot perish.
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Dost thou not eloquently look
A promise from the mighty book
Writ in immensity?
Thought of the universal Soul,
Thyself a fragment and a whole,
A truth, a mystery?
A promise from the mighty book
Writ in immensity?
Thought of the universal Soul,
Thyself a fragment and a whole,
A truth, a mystery?
The dead shall rise, the heavens shall burn,
The earth be melted, yet return
A new and glorious birth:
Oh, say that thou wilt live again,
And I, methinks, with less of pain,
Shall see thee fall to earth.
The earth be melted, yet return
A new and glorious birth:
Oh, say that thou wilt live again,
And I, methinks, with less of pain,
Shall see thee fall to earth.
Speak from thy softly-rounded bell,
Whereon, as though a pearly shell,
The morning light still gloweth;
And as the fair leaves dropped away,
Methought that each did seem to say,
‘I cannot tell—God knoweth.’
Whereon, as though a pearly shell,
The morning light still gloweth;
And as the fair leaves dropped away,
Methought that each did seem to say,
‘I cannot tell—God knoweth.’
Methinks that there should be no death;
For all that liveth hath the breath
Of One who cannot die;
The robes of glory He hath worn
Are never thrown aside in scorn,
But lovingly laid by.
For all that liveth hath the breath
Of One who cannot die;
The robes of glory He hath worn
Are never thrown aside in scorn,
But lovingly laid by.
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All that the future darkly holds,
All the sepulchral past unfolds,
All that this hour must be;
The soul that seeks in Him its sun,
The flower whose little race is run,
All things that He hath made, are one
With His eternity.
All the sepulchral past unfolds,
All that this hour must be;
The soul that seeks in Him its sun,
The flower whose little race is run,
All things that He hath made, are one
With His eternity.
Methinks we will not mourn again,
Nor murmur, while life's varied chain
Our Father's glory showeth;
The blessedness that we have known,
The tears that we have wept alone,
Gather like incense round the throne
Of Him who all things knoweth.
Nor murmur, while life's varied chain
Our Father's glory showeth;
The blessedness that we have known,
The tears that we have wept alone,
Gather like incense round the throne
Of Him who all things knoweth.
And Thou, my widowed bridal Rose,
Whose pallid leaves the wound disclose
From which thy heart's blood floweth,
Thou asketh why the grave doth hide
The form that was thy life, thy pride,
Why thou should'st be so sorely tried:
‘I cannot tell—God knoweth.’
Whose pallid leaves the wound disclose
From which thy heart's blood floweth,
Thou asketh why the grave doth hide
The form that was thy life, thy pride,
Why thou should'st be so sorely tried:
‘I cannot tell—God knoweth.’
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