Page:Color (1925 Cullen).pdf/19

This is my hour
 To wax and climb,
Flaunt a red flower
 In the face of time.
And only an hour
 Time gives, then snap
Goes the flower,
 And dried is the sap.

Juice of the first
 Grapes of my vine,
I proffer your thirst
 My own heart's wine.
Here of my growing
 A red rose sways,
Seed of my sowing,
 And work of my days.

(I run, but time's
 Abreast with me;
I sing, but he climbs
 With my highest C.)

Drink while my blood
 Colors the wine,
Reach while the bud
 Is still on the vine. . . .

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