A perfect rhythm, a fierce suspended note
Of life intensely living, gay,—
I know again that day.
Ah, pitiful! He had no splendid dream,
No song, no vision's spark,
To lead him, blind, with fitful tossing gleam
Beyond your hour of dark;
He had no dream
Who was himself a music and a flame,
Who sought not glory, but himself became
The glory of his victories,
Who died
Clean washed in anger and the fighter's pride,
Unearthed of ease,
And down those burning skies
Fell like a shattered star.
O Rosa Mundi—in the rose that dies
Something there is, not mystical and far,
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