—     8     — 
 
So thine eternal petals shall enclose 
Me, O most wonderful lady of delight, 
Immaculate, indivisible circle of night, 
Inviolate, invulnerable Rose ! 
 
The sound of my own voice carries me on. 
I am as a ship whose anchors are all gone, 
Whose rudder is held by Love the indomitable  — 
Purposeful helmsman !  Were his port high Hell, 
Who should be fool enough to care ?  Suppose 
Hell’s waters wash the memory of this rose 
Out of my mind, what misery matters then ? 
Or, if they leave it, all the woes of men 
Are as pale shadows in the glory of 
That passionate splendour of Love. 
Ay !  my own voice, my own thoughts.  These, then, must be 
The mutiny of some worm’s misery, 
Some chained despair knotted into my flesh, 
Some chance companion, some soul damned afresh 
Since my redemption, that is vocal at all ; 
For I am wrapt away from light and call 
In the sweet heart of the red rose. 
My spirit only knows 
This woman and no more ;  who would know more ? 
I, I am concentrate 
In the unshakable state 
Of constant rapture.  Who should pour 
His ravings in the air for winds to whirl,