Rosa Mundi

— 9 — Far from the central pearl Of all the diadem of the universe ? Let God take pen, rehearse Dull nursery tales ; then, not before, O rose, Red rose ! shall the belov’d of thee, Infinite rose ! pen puerile poetry That turns in writing to vile prose. Were this the quintessential plume of Keats And Shelley and Swinburne and Verlaine, Could I outsoar them, all their lyric feats, Excel their utterance vain With one convincing rapture, beat them hollow As an ass’s skin ; wert thou, Apollo, Mere slave to me, not Lord — thy fieriest flight And stateliest shaft of light Thyself thyself surpassing : all were dull, And thou, O rose, sole, sacred, wonderful, Informing all, in all most beautiful, Circle and sphere, perfect in every part, High above hope of Art : Though, be it said ! thou art nowhere now, Save in the secret chamber of my heart. Behind the brass of my anonymous brow. Ay ! let the coward and slave who writes write on ! He is no more harm to Love than the grey snake Who lurks in the dusk brake