The Winged Beetle

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