Were you, O Rose, whose root remotest hell 
Nourishes, and whose top flowers higher than the Throne 
Of the Eternal one. 
Thou shouldst not leave me alone 
To gaze upon the sun 
And take the glory of his excellence— 
Not unto me close curled 
And on my body’s beauty crucified 
In silver spirit clad with gold of sense, 
But sending forth thy rays life-pearled 
As a bridegroom squandering his strength upon the bride 
—Thou art sufficient to redeem the world. 
 
 
XIV 
 
!  IS the secret of the starry deep 
  Nothing but pain and pleasure, grief and joy ? 
Is God a wanton boy 
To play with us so bitter cheap 
By such a jewelled light ?  Be thine the power, 
Rose of the Stars, in this thy tortured hour 
When the wee lips that clung to thee are cold, 
To give the world a light of other gold 
From that men hoard, from that the suns afford 
In their implacable cars 
As they roll on impassive ;  bid thy Lord 
(O Rose, Rose of the Stars !) 
And slave make known thy beauty and thy passion 
14 
O