 | English Roses |  |
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
O sweet magician, at whose touch of lightThe golden East gave up its secret store,
The wisdom of the ages, and the lore
Revealed to souls that do not walk by sight;
Thy brow with all that vision yet is bright,
Thy lips drop jewels and the better ore
Bequeathed by Masters who have sung before,
And left like stars their footsteps through the night.
Thy larger hope sees God unveiled in man,
Eternity in hearts, space in a span,
And Heaven betwixt the harvest and the seed;
Thorns blossom at thy breath, the humble weed
Becomes a precious ruby in thy plan,
Which hails a glory in the darkest creed.
| English Roses | |