—     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