 | English Roses |  |
501
WHITE FIRE—SNOWDROP
O firstling of the year
Thou tender thing,
Or flower or flame or an embodied tear—
I know not which, sweet daughter of the Spring!
But well am I assured
That faultless grace,
Hath in another form and life endured
And looked upon the glory of God's face;
To bring it back for us
In perfume shed,
With curve and colour finely softened thus
And through a fitter shape interpreted.
Thou tender thing,
Or flower or flame or an embodied tear—
I know not which, sweet daughter of the Spring!
But well am I assured
That faultless grace,
Hath in another form and life endured
And looked upon the glory of God's face;
To bring it back for us
In perfume shed,
With curve and colour finely softened thus
And through a fitter shape interpreted.
And we are better now,
For only this—
An insight which doth brighten each dark brow,
And shows that nothing has been made amiss.
We see and greatly guess,
A human heart
Shines out of heaven in thy pure loveliness,
And man and God can never be apart.
We gather precious lore
To lighten toil,
And lead us onward to the farther shore,
When souls have washed them free from earthly soil.
For only this—
An insight which doth brighten each dark brow,
And shows that nothing has been made amiss.
We see and greatly guess,
A human heart
Shines out of heaven in thy pure loveliness,
And man and God can never be apart.
We gather precious lore
To lighten toil,
And lead us onward to the farther shore,
When souls have washed them free from earthly soil.
Thy blossom is white fire,
A splendid spark
Arrayed for us in sober dim attire,
From the High Altars to illume our dark.
But conscious of thy birth
And blessed things,
While fretting at thy meaner mortal girth,
Thou hangest down that head with folded wings;
To lift us higher up
Than bounds below,
To drink as of a sacramental cup
The dews of heaven which from thee overflow.
A splendid spark
Arrayed for us in sober dim attire,
From the High Altars to illume our dark.
But conscious of thy birth
And blessed things,
While fretting at thy meaner mortal girth,
Thou hangest down that head with folded wings;
To lift us higher up
Than bounds below,
To drink as of a sacramental cup
The dews of heaven which from thee overflow.
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