 | English Roses |  |
ROSES AND RUE.
This is the song of the woman,
This is the song of the true,
Dear and divine, and a human
Mingling of roses and rue;
Beautiful, passionate, stately,
Fronting the storm wind sedately
Just as a heaven of blue.
Clear as the light of the morning,
Soft as the shadow of eve
Shut in delights that deceive;
Double the heart and adorning,
Which when we doubt we believe.
This is the song of the true,
Dear and divine, and a human
Mingling of roses and rue;
Beautiful, passionate, stately,
Fronting the storm wind sedately
Just as a heaven of blue.
Clear as the light of the morning,
Soft as the shadow of eve
Shut in delights that deceive;
Double the heart and adorning,
Which when we doubt we believe.
This is the song of the sweeting
Wrought by the cunning of years,
Fashioned of God and the meeting
Made with all laughters and tears;
Dainty and delicate, moulded
Madly of loves and enfolded
Deep in misgivings and fears.
Twain as the dawning and star-shine
Strewn on the waters that toss
Up to the foot of a Cross,
Glimpsed for a moment in far shine
Out of some infinite loss.
Wrought by the cunning of years,
Fashioned of God and the meeting
Made with all laughters and tears;
Dainty and delicate, moulded
Madly of loves and enfolded
Deep in misgivings and fears.
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Strewn on the waters that toss
Up to the foot of a Cross,
Glimpsed for a moment in far shine
Out of some infinite loss.
This is the song of the foremost
Tyrant and toy, and a slave
Crowned whom we serve and adore most
Heedless of gifts and the grave;
Lady of light and the blessing
Clasped in her fatal caressing,
Leaving no remnant to save.
Gently she comes and her motion
Savours of song and desire,
Clothed in a saintly attire
Breathing the purest devotion—
But in her bosom is fire.
Tyrant and toy, and a slave
Crowned whom we serve and adore most
Heedless of gifts and the grave;
Lady of light and the blessing
Clasped in her fatal caressing,
Leaving no remnant to save.
Gently she comes and her motion
Savours of song and desire,
Clothed in a saintly attire
Breathing the purest devotion—
But in her bosom is fire.
This is the song of the woman
Hard as the millstone, and dew
Grudged in its kindness to no man,
Life to the favoured and few;
Loyal and fickle and faithless,
Though with a destiny deathless
Rising her work to renew.
Glorious, lovely, and little,
Now with our fortunes to spend,
Now with a pitiful end
Deeming all sacraments brittle
Bonds for her passion to rend.
Hard as the millstone, and dew
Grudged in its kindness to no man,
Life to the favoured and few;
Loyal and fickle and faithless,
Though with a destiny deathless
Rising her work to renew.
Glorious, lovely, and little,
Now with our fortunes to spend,
Now with a pitiful end
Deeming all sacraments brittle
Bonds for her passion to rend.
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