PHOCAS
A Red Rose on the left he set,
White Lilies on the right:
“Bestain’d with blood, beset with thorn,
Good in this world is hardly born.
Yet, thorns once made a Crown, and Blood
Once wash’d a whole world white:
“So now,” he said, “tho’ scarce one bud
On my rough branches be,
One day, I dare be sure, will God
Touch all to bloom my prunèd rod—
Father! and being pure at last,
Even I shall pleasure Thee!
“ . . . Here, at my heart, white Columbine,
Show forth the holy Dove.
Yet, do not grudge a little space
To this one, with the human face,
Heart’s-ease—O excellently named
Thou little look of love!
“And do thou, here, at my left hand,
Grow thickly, bitter Rue,
And thickly from this right hand spring,
Sweet Spikenard! that its offering
My dust may still afford to God,
Of grief and worship due.
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