The Equinox (Volume I, Number X)

144 THE EQUINOX Thou art too pure to love, too sweet to know, Too fair to bear unsullied through the world, Where love is blind with lust, and hate grows strong On thine immortal song; Nor do the world’s winds blow Abroad the forbidden word, in thee, in thee impearled. My Rose! my Rose! my Rose! my ensanguined Rose, Blood o’ the heart of the love transcending life, Than death more cool, more eloquent, more still : There is moonlight on the hill, But thou art gone, as goes The promised joy of thee, the world’s still-virgin wife. They spurn thee from the temples of their Lady, Nor know the passion of thy virgin will, Nor heed the murmurous song of thee, that blows Over their heads, my Rose: But in cool paths and shady Of the old secret woods, ah! they might find thee still! Rose! Rose! the driving rain, the shadows growing Over the pathway of the doubtful land, Obscure thee from me, and no foot-fall now I hear; if it be thou, So silent, that art going, I shall not know, nor in thy darkness understand.