Prose · 1897 · The Secret Rose
To the Secret Rose
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,Enfold me in my hour of hours; where thoseWho sought thee at the Holy Sepulchre,Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stirAnd tumult of defeated dreams; and deepAmong pale eyelids heavy with the sleepMen have named beauty. Your great leaves enfoldThe ancient beards, the helms of ruby and goldOf the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyesSaw the Pierced Hands and Rood of Elder riseIn druid vapour and make the torches dim;Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and himWho met Fand walking among flaming dew,By a grey shore where the wind never blew,And lost the world and Emir for a kiss;And him who drove the gods out of their lissAnd till a hundred morns had flowered redFeasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;And the proud dreaming king who flung the crownAnd sorrow away, and calling bard and clownDwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods;And him who sold tillage and house and goods,And sought through lands and islands numberless yearsUntil he found with laughter and with tearsA woman of so shining lovelinessThat men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,A little stolen tress. I too awaitThe hour of thy great wind of love and hate.When shall the stars be blown about the sky,Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?
Text: The Secret Rose, revised text without the Hanrahan stories (first published by Lawrence & Bullen, London, 1897). Public domain.