ROSA IGNOTA
Of flaming gold is flung back from thy throne!
I stand unarmed before thee, and alone,
Bearing the fallen mantle of a star;
Rose of the world! Istar! Istar! Istar!
XV
THE BLUE CIRCLE
For all the blue heart of the shifting summer,
And all the grace of green, the fire of spring
Grown olden in the world of space and time—
Let the twin worlds rejoice! The sacrilege
Of the mystery is unveiled ; there is no word
Uttered within the bosom of the spring.
But the hornéd satyrs under the beechen boughs
Still linger, as the hour of triumph grows
In the Ram’s mouth: and the heart of day is torn
With the fear of the new Birth: no more is set
The Crown on the temples of the dawn; no more
Is heard the clarion of the day; the ways
Are darkened for delight, and pure for pain
Of birth, stretch forth to the ends of the universe—
A long, still road of longing, passion-pale
With the dust of lives, and strewn with the bitterness
Of the heart of man, the weary heart of man!
And deeply set betwixt the pillars of day,
There stands the statue of a god, awaking
From torpor; reaching up to the pale blue skies,
And wingless, and with longing in his eyes
For the unattainable goal; with lips that quiver
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