THE EQUINOX
I am stirred to the depths of me when the wind blows
The notes of the lyre
To me, O lost Rose!
My rose of the world,
My rose of the mire,
With petals soft-curled
O’er the heart of desire,—
I am he who shall bear thee; who knows not and
knows;
Whose heart is impearled
In the heart of the Rose.
By the bow that is bent,
By the veil that is torn,
By the strength that is spent,
By the babe that is born,
By the river of starlight that ceaselessly flows
By the god’s starlit tent,
Oh, I hail thee, my Rose.
So day and her lover,
And night and her dream,
Have passed thee, Rose, over;
And over the stream
Thou shalt pass, and thy vigil not seek to impose,
Nor thy secret discover,
O thou, the world’s Rose.
146