 | English Roses |  |
FINAL FORM.
I seek, I hardly know what thing—
It's outlined in the eagle's wing,
And trembles on a golden string
With measures meted;
I hear it in the cuckoo note,
And ancient music with its mote
Of suffering that some Master wrote—
By none repeated;
I see it in the iron cape
Sea-washed that clouds for ever drape,
And curve of maiden's magic shape
Not yet completed.
It's outlined in the eagle's wing,
And trembles on a golden string
With measures meted;
I hear it in the cuckoo note,
And ancient music with its mote
Of suffering that some Master wrote—
By none repeated;
I see it in the iron cape
Sea-washed that clouds for ever drape,
And curve of maiden's magic shape
Not yet completed.
I seek, I hardly care to tell,
What is the spirit or the spell
That mortals know but none know well—
The soul of graces;
A touch that kindles the dead ash,
A shadow on the long dark lash,
A light of secret flowers that flash
From sudden places;
The miracle of perfect form
Ruled by no earthly name or norm,
The life in death, the statued storm—
In women's faces.
What is the spirit or the spell
That mortals know but none know well—
The soul of graces;
A touch that kindles the dead ash,
A shadow on the long dark lash,
A light of secret flowers that flash
From sudden places;
The miracle of perfect form
Ruled by no earthly name or norm,
The life in death, the statued storm—
In women's faces.
| English Roses | |