Rosa Coeli

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