THE SILENCE OF THE ROSEBUD

O lovely rosebud, thou art more to me Than what men call thee; for a mystery As fathomless as ocean in thy breast Is folded with each petal, I, in quest Of knowledge, do most reverently Approach thy presence-chamber. Thou shalt be My teacher: I am weary grown of books And speech of men. Lo! something in thy looks Inspires new courage. O reveal to me The secret of thy being! I may see Thy beauty, scent thy sweetness; yet thou art E’en more than these, for thou dost play a part In life’s grand mystr’y. O is’t given thee, The power to solve, what is denied to me? Did’st see, or only feel, that Hand of might That touched thee at the Spring-dawn, or was light Denied thee then? Rare gift of light—to me, Sublimest type of immortality. At thy first flush of crimson I was nigh To watch thy coming—what no human eye Might hope to witness. And lo, silently, As stars find birth thou didst appear to me In form perfection, in thy charm of dress Passing all wonder in thy loveliness. Still thou art silent to my listening ear, But deep within my consciousness, I hear “Lo! beauty, love and truth, are one with Him Who beams in radiance, hides in shadows dim.” What though thy birthplace be the humble sod, Thy life and mine are, surely, one with God!