Or with a grace like God, a stealth like love,  
Pour on him from above 
Wine from the purple vats of death ? 
Nay !  ’tis no wonder—shall they wonder then,  
These bat-eyed newspaper-besotted men, 
If thou and I have found the Elixir rare 
That giveth Life to those whoso drinketh it, 
The Stone beyond compare, 
The harmony of the Circle and the Square, 
All that surpasseth mortal wit 
Even to imagine ?  we have found it, Rose, 
Rose of the Stars, Rose of the utmost snows ! 
Where ?  Where Love knows. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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