ROSA IGNOTA
But last night, when betwixt thy breasts I lay,
Sucking thy soul away,
I dreamed of a song I would make thee, a song so fair,
It should charm the wandering air,
And make it stay with me for ever,
A thought of thee within my mind:
Dearest, I am deaf and blind,
Believe me, to all but thee ; yea, too, I am dumb,
Save when I sing thee,
When my songs I bring thee.
O passionate endeavour|
O love more rare
Than the fabled loves of the gods, I too succumb
Unto the olden immemorial spell,
And have no words to tell
Of thee, and of the grace of thee,
And of the face of thee,
Who art mine, whom I made mine own.
Rosa Ignota! Ah! the Rose is blown.
XI
MELANCHOLY
Over all is the greenness, in the slow-falling night
Over the fields with dusk and dew, with dusk and dew,
there flees
A dying echo, faint and dim, fleeing towards the light;
Sombre streams cry mournfully in the sighing breeze
With the rustling trees.
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