ROSA IGNOTA
Upon thy grave shows bare and white
In the chill heart of winter's night.
Still shall I feel the wind that blows
From the secret grave of thee, my Rose.
IV
DECADENCE
TwILicut, that is the thin gray ghost of day,
Holds the dim way of death ; the darkness grows
More sanguine-hearted as the hour is sped,
And with less light is fed;
Thine hour grows, grows alway :
Thou art mine, mine own, mine own, thou sanguine Rose.
Thou sanguine Rose! Deep-hearted as the hour
Thou bearest as a flame; more argent-shod
Than the eloquent bringer of the god’s delight:
Here, from the edge of night
I pluck thee forth, a flower
Too fair for the garish day, the barren sod.
My Rose! My ensanguined Rose! For ever mine,
Mine in the birth of the spirit : the flash that fades,
Unveiling still, lights thee, that bloomest still
Till that thou dost fulfil
The old gray world, divine
With the breath of thee in the cool, white colonnades.
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