 | English Roses |  |
482
MY FLOWER.
Woven of air, a virgin thought, embodied as it cameFresh from the Maker's mind and wrought of phantasy and flame;
A rift of blue, a message true
Within a sky of gramary
And ever still the same.
The rapture of all sweetest things and gossamers and fairy wings,
The grape's bewitching blood,
The glamour which the sunset brings
To bathe a mountain flood.
The mystery of history from secret sluices drawn,
A note of love and perfect rest made beautiful and manifest,
A prophecy of dawn.
The voice of silence and the scent of lands that none have seen,
Borne over gulf and continent where holy steps have been—
All gathered up in one fair cup,
To gladden some great Queen.
| English Roses | |