—     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