Rosa Mundi

— 14 — The imperfection underlying ever The perfect happiness. Thou knowest that not in flesh Lies the fair fresh Delight of Love ; not in mere lips and eyes The secret of these bridal ecstasies, Since thou art everywhere, Rose of the World, Rose of the Uttermost Abode of Glory, Rose of the High Host Of heaven, mystic, rapturous Rose ! The extreme passion glows Deep in this breast ; thou knowest (and love knows) How every word awakes its own reward In a thought akin to thee, a shadow of thee ; And every tune evokes its musical Lord ; And every rhyme tingles and shakes in me The filaments of the great web of Love. O Rose all roses far above In the garden of God’s roses, Sorrowless, thornless, passionate Rose, that lies Full in the flood of its own sympathies And makes my life one tune that curls and closes On its own self delight ; A circle, never a line ! Safe from all wind, Secure in its own pleasure-house confined, Sure lord of its own rapture, deaf and blind To aught but its own mastery of song