 | English Roses |  |
ROSALIND.
A golden song for her—The gorgeous Ind
That robes with gossamer
My Rosalind,
Yet cannot find a gem
Of sweetest fire
Worthy to kiss the hem
Of her attire.
89
Could not express,
Save with a transient lie,
Her loveliness;
Which gathers from within
Its purest part,
And claimeth as its kin
God's very Heart;
While lesser graces come
And lightly go
As flowers in May, and some
Like winter snow.
A golden song for her,
Wafted by wind
Of deathless dulcimer—
For Rosalind.
| English Roses | |