Exquisite one!Golden against the blue, thou yellow rose.Rose-heart, with winged leaves thy beauty growsWhen Spring into the arms of Summer flows.
Now 'tis November drear,—Dark dawns and nights of fear,—Winter is near.Branch bare,—nor leaf nor bud,—All of their golden crest into the mire pressed,—Ah! 'Tis rose-mire!In the black soaking oozeDidst all thy beauty lose,Or will thy spirit fuseInto rose-mire, maybe through my desire,Something of fire divine?Give, and thou canst, the sign.
Sudden before mine eyes I saw the rose ariseIn her sweet beauty fair, perfuming all the air,Fused in the sacred fire created by desireIn memory's crucible, out of rose-mire—Exquisite one!
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