Rosa Mundi

— 2 — Are molten dew, as, on the lotus leaves Sliver-coiled in the Sun Into green-girdled spheres Purer than all a maiden’s dream enweaves, Lies the unutterable Beauty of The waters. Yea, arise, divinest dove Of the Idalian, on your crimson wings And soft grey plumes, bear me to yonder shrine Of that most softly-spoken one, Mine Aphrodite ! Touch the imperfect strings, Oh thou, immortal, throned above the moon ! Inspire a holy tune Lighter and lovelier than flowers and wine Offered in gracious gardens unto Pan By any soul of man ! In vain the solemn stars pour their pale dews Upon my trembling spirit ; their caress Leaves me moon-rapt in waves of loveliness All thine, O rose, O wrought of many a muse In Music, O thou strength of ecstasy Incarnate in a woman-form, create Of her own rapture, infinite, ultimate, Not to be seen, not grasped, not even imaginable, But known of one, by virtue of that spell Of thy sweet will toward him : thou, unknown, Untouched, grave mistress of the sunlight throne Of thine own nature ; known not even of me,