12 
ROSA COELI 
 
 
Things beyond words, beyond the want of them 
Beyond the pauses and the ecstasies . . . . 
Where should my dream get such a diadem 
Of voiceless thoughts as these ?   
 
XII 
These dreams reform 
Themselves into a rainbow to the storm 
Of simple passion ;  let me from the string 
Take many-coloured wing 
As a swift-thoughted arrow 
Vertically shot against the sun !   
I would you were a sow 
And these my verses were your squealing farrow, 
That they might suck the milk of your perfection 
Unto them, that the world’s ear might be won, 
The world’s heart melted now, 
The world’s mind drawn from its dejection, 
By the sure fact that not in idle dream 
But sole in sense supreme 
Certainly visible and tangible 
Were you, O Rose, whose root remotest hell 
Nourishes, and whose top flowers higher than the  
Throne 
Of the Eternal one. 
Thou shouldst not leave me alone 
To gaze upon the sun 
And take the glory of his excellence— 
Not unto me close curled, 
And on my body’s beauty crucified