LOVERS AND ROSES

So fair the world about me lies, So pure is heaven above, Ere so much beauty dies I would give a gift to my love; Now, ere the long day close, That has been so full of bliss, I will send to my love the rose, In its leaves I will shut a kiss; A rose in the night to perish, A kiss through life to cherish; Now, ere the night-wind blows, I will send unto her the rose.

Where love is life The roses blow, Though winds be rude And cold the snow, The roses climb Serenely slow, They nod in rhyme We know—we know Where love is life The roses blow.

Where life is love The roses blow, Though care be quick And sorrows grow, Their roots are twined With rose-roots so That rosebuds find A way to show Where life is love The roses blow.

Love, it is the time of roses! In bright fields and garden-closes How they burgeon and unfold! How they sweep o'er tombs and towers In voluptuous crimson showers And untrammelled tides of gold!

How they lure wild bees to capture All the rich mellifluous rapture Of their magical perfume, And to passing winds surrender And their frail and dazzling splendor Rivalling your turban-plume!

How they cleave the air adorning The high rivers of the morning In a blithe, bejewelled fleet! How they deck the moonlit grasses In thick rainbow tinted masses Like a fair queen's bridal sheet!

Hide me in a shrine of roses, Drown me in a wine of roses Drawn from every fragrant grove! Bind me on a pyre of roses, Burn me in a fire of roses, Crown me with the rose of Love!

Love planted a rose, And the world turned sweet. Where the wheat-field blows Love planted a rose. Up the mill-wheel's prose Ran a music-beat. Love planted a rose, And the world turned sweet.

My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, Into thy garden; thine be happy hours Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, From root to crowning petal thine alone.

Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers. But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.

For as these come and go, and quit our pine To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers, Sing one song only from our alder-trees,

My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine, Fit to the silent world and other summers, With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.

I saw the giant stalking to the sky, The giant cloud above the wilderness, Bearing a mystery too far, too high, For my poor guess. Away I turned me, sighing: "I must seek In lowlier places for the wonder-word. Something more little, intimate, shall speak." A bright rose stirred. And long I looked into its face, to see At last some hidden import of the hour.

And I had thought to turn from mystery— But O, flower! flower!

There seems no difference between To-day and yesterday— The forest glimmers just as green, The garden's just as gay.

Yet, something came and something went Within the night's chill gloom: An old rose fell, her fragrance spent, A new rose burst in bloom.

But we did walk in Eden, Eden, the garden of God;— There, where no beckoning wonder Of all the paths we trod, No choiring sun-filled vineyard, No voice of stream or bird, But was some radiant oracle And flaming with the Word!

Mine ears are dim with voices; Mine eyes yet strive to see The black things here to wonder at, The mirth,—the misery. Beloved, who wert with me there, How came these shames to be?— On what lost star are we?

Men say: The paths of gladness By men were never trod!— But we have walked in Eden, Eden, the garden of God.

Among the flowers of summer-time she stood, And underneath the films and blossoms shone Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown To ripe magnificence in solitude; The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed Her shoulders with her shining hair out blown, And dyed her breast with many a changing tone Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood Among the flowers; She raised her arm up for her dove to know That he might preen him on her lovely head; Then I, unseen, and rising on tiptoe, Bowed over the rose-barriers, and lo! Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead, Among the flowers!

How many flowers are gently met Within my garden fair! The daffodil, the violet, And lilies dear are there.

They fade and pass, the fleeting flowers, And brief their little light; They hold not Love's diviner hours, Nor Sower's human night.

Tho' one by one their bloom depart, No change thy lover knows, For mine the fragrance of thy heart, O thou my perfect rose!

Brunhilde, with the young Norn soul That has no peace, and grim as those That spun the thread of life, give heed: Peace is concealed in every rose. And in these petals peace I bring: A jewel clearer than the dew: A perfume subtler than the breath Of Spring with which it circles you.

Peace I have found, asleep, awake, By many paths, on many a strand. Peace overspreads the sky with stars. Peace is concealed within your hand. And when at night I clasp it there I wonder how you never know The strength you shed from finger-tips: The treasure that consoles me so.

Begin the art of finding peace, Beloved:—it is art, no less. Sometimes we find it hid beneath The orchards in their springtime dress: Sometimes one finds it in oak woods, Sometimes in dazzling mountain-snows; In books, sometimes. But pray begin By finding it within a rose.

My soul is like a garden-close Where marjoram and lilac grow, Where soft the scent of long ago Over the border lightly blows.

Where sometimes homing winds at play Bear the faint fragrance of a rose— My soul is like a garden-close Because you chanced to pass my way.

I dreamed a dream of roses somewhere breathing Their sweet souls out upon the summer night: The flowers I saw not, but their fragrance wreathing Like clouds of incense filled me with delight. And then as if for my still further pleasure There came a flood of sweetest melody,— But whence I knew not flowed the wondrous measure, For neither flute nor viol could I see. Then in the vision love sublime, immortal, Encircled all my soul with its pure stream; And though I saw thee not through dreamland's portal, I knew thou only hadst inspired the dream. 'Tis thus thine influence itself discloses, In dreams of love, of music, and of roses!

The rose-tree wears a diadem, Both bud and bloom of gold and fire, Too high upon the slender stem For baby hands that reach for them:

And Roses! my brown Elsa cries: Her chubby arms in vain aspire. But rose-leaf Hilda smiles and sighs And worships them with patient eyes.

I gathered them a rose or two, But not the shy one hanging higher That brushed my lips with honey-dew! That is the rose I send to you.

Would that I might become you, Losing myself, my sweet!— So longs the dust that lies About the rose's feet.

So longs the last, dim star Hung on the verge of night;— She moves—she melts—she slips— She trembles into the light.

I sat one day within a garden fair Pining for thee and sad because alone, Wishing some fate could send thee to me there.

All things appeared to share my saddened mood, Each flower drooped, the sun was hid from view, The very birds in silence seemed to brood.

Then, as I day-dreamed with my eyes half closed, Sudden the birds began to sing again, The flow'rs, uplifting heads, no longer dozed.

Thinking the sun had come once more for me And for all nature, to effect such change, I turned and lo! saw not the sun but thee.

Oh, the beauty of the world is in this garden, I hear it stir on every hand. See how the flowers keep still because of it! hear how it trembles in the blackbird's song! There is a secret in it, a blessed mystery. I fain would weep to feel it near me, my eyes grow dim before these unseen wings. And the secret is in other places, it is in songs and music and all lovers' hearts. Hush now, and walk on tiptoe, for these are fairy things.

Belinda in her dimity, Whereon are wrought pink roses, Trips through the boxwood paths to me, A-down the garden-closes, As though a hundred roses came, ('Twas so I thought) to meet me, As though one rosebud said my name And bent its head to greet me.

Belinda, in your rose-wrought dress You seemed the garden's growing; The tilt and toss o' you, no less Than wind-swayed posy blowing. 'Twas so I watched in sweet dismay, Lest in that happy hour, Sudden you'd stop and thrill and sway And turn into a flower.

De roses lean ter love her an' des won't leave de place; De climbin' mawnin'-glories sweet-smilin' in her face; De twinklin' pathway know her an' seem ter pass de word, An' de South Win' singin' ter her ter match de mockin'-bird.

She sweetheart ter de Springtime, W'en de dreamy roses stir, An' Winter shine lak' Summer An' wear a rose fer her.

"Sweetheart!" sing de Medder, w'en lak' de light she pass; De River take de tune up: "Make me yo' lookin'-glass!" But des who her true lover she never let 'em know; De Win' is sich a tell-tale, an' de River run on so!

But Springtime come a-courtin' An' let de blossoms fall, An' Summer say: "I loves you!" She sweetheart ter 'em ALL!

I have a garden filled with many flowers: The mignonette, the sweet-pea, and the rose, Daisies, and daffodils, whose color glows The fairer for the verdure which embowers Their beauty, and sets forth their hidden powers To charm my heart, whenever at the close Of day's dull hurry I would seek repose In my still garden through the darkening hours.

Thus, Lady, do I keep a place apart, Wherein my love for you cloistered shall be, Far from the rattle of the city cart, Even as my garden, where daily I may see The flowers of your love, and none from me May win the hidden secret of my heart.

Do thou, my rose, incline Thy heart to mine. If love be real Ah, whisper, whisper low That I at last may know. Quick! breathe it now! A sigh,—a tear,—a vow: Oh, any lightest thing Its cadences to sing That loved am I, and not, Ah, not forgot!

The sweet caresses that I gave to you Are but the perfume of the Rose of Love, The color and the witchery thereof, And not the Rose itself. Each is a clue Merely, whereby to seek the hidden, true, Substantial blossom. Like the Jordan dove A kiss is but a symbol from above— An emblem the Reality shines through.

The Rose of Love is ever unrevealed In all its beauty, for the sight of it Were perilous with purpose of the world. The hand of Life has cautiously concealed The pollen-chamber of the infinite Flower, and its petals only half uncurled.

Will the garden never forget That it whispers over and over, "Where is your lover, Nanette? Where is your lover—your lover?" Oh, roses I helped to grow, Oh, lily and mignonette, Must you always question me so, "Where is your lover, Nanette?" Since you looked on my joy one day, Is my grief then a lesser thing? Have you only this to say When I pray you for comforting?

Now that I walk alone Here where our hands were met, Must you whisper me everyone, "Where is your lover, Nanette?"

I have mourned with you year and year, When the Autumn has left you bare, And now that my heart is sere Does not one of your roses care? Oh, help me forget—forget, Nor question over and over, "Where is your lover, Nanette? Where is your lover—your lover?"

It was June in the garden, It was our time, our day; And our gaze with love on everything Did fall; They seemed then softly opening, And they saw and loved us both, The roses all.

The sky was purer than all limpid thought; Insect and bird Swept through the golden texture of the air, Unheard; Our kisses were so fair they brought Exaltation to both light and bird. It seemed as though a happiness at once Had skied itself and wished the heavens entire For its resplendent fire; And life, all pulsing life, had entered in, Into the fissures of our beings to the core, To fling them higher.

And there was nothing but invocatory cries, Mad impulses, prayers and vows that cleave The archèd skies, And sudden yearning to create new gods, In order to believe.

A fair white rose sedately grows Within the garden wall. There blows No wind to ruff her petals white, No stain of earth, no touch of blight The pure face of my ladye shows. The queen of all the walls enclose Might be mine own, an' if I chose; But yet, but yet I cannot slight My wild red rose.

Outside the garden wall she throws Her clinging tendrils, and she knows How strong the winds of passion smite; She's fragrant, though not faultless quite; Just as she is, none shall depose My wild red rose.

Red roses floating in a crystal bowl You bring, O love; and in your eyes I see, Blossom on blossom, your warm love of me Burning within the crystal of your soul— Red roses floating in a crystal bowl.

This friendly garden, with its fragrant roses,— It was not ours, when she was here below; And so, in that low bed where she reposes, The beauty of it all she cannot know.

But in the evening when the birds are calling The fragrance rises like a breath of myrrh, And in my empty heart, benignly falling, Becomes a little prayer to send to her.

So, in that silent, lonely bed that holds her, Where nevermore the shadows rise or flee, I think a dream of radiant spring enfolds her— Of bloom and bird and bending bough ... and me.

As long as the stars of God Hang steadfast in the sky, And the blossoms 'neath the sod Awake when Spring is nigh; As long as the nightingale Sings love-songs to the rose, And the Winter wind in the vale Makes moan o'er the virgin snows— As long as these things be I would tell my love for thee!

As long as the rose of June Bursts forth in crimson fire, And the mellow harvest-moon Shines over hill and spire; As long as heaven's dew At morning kisses the sod; As long as you are you, And I know that God is God— As long as these things be I would tell my love for thee!

King Solomon walked a thousand times Forth of his garden-close; And saw there spring no goodlier thing, Be sure, than the same little rose.

Under the sun was nothing new, Or now, I well suppose. But what new thing could you find to sing More rare than the same little rose?

Nothing is new; save I, save you, And every new heart that grows, On the same Earth met, that nurtures yet Breath of the same little rose.

When one has heard the message of the Rose, For what faint other calling shall he care? Dark broodings turn to find their lonely lair; The vain world keeps her posturing and pose. He, with his crimson secret, which bestows Heaven in his heart, to Heaven lifts his prayer, And knows all glory trembling through the air As on triumphal journeying he goes.

So through green woodlands in the twilight dim, Led by the faint, pale argent of a star, What though to others it is weary night, Nature holds out her wide, sweet heart to him; And, leaning o'er the world's mysterious bar, His soul is great with everlasting light.

The Lily whispered to the Rose: "The Tulip's fearfully stuck up. You'd think to see the creature's pose, She was a golden altar-cup. There's method in her boldness, too; She catches twice her share of Dew."

The Rose into the Tulip's ear Murmured: "The Lily is a sight; Don't you believe she powders, dear, To make herself so saintly white? She takes some trouble, it is plain, Her reputation to sustain."

Said Tulip to the Lily white: "About the Rose—what do you think?— Her color? Should you say it's quite— Well, quite a natural shade of pink?" "Natural!" the Lily cried. "Good Saints! Why, everybody knows she paints!"

Eef poor man goes An' steals a rose Een Juna-time— Wan leetla rose— You gon' su'pose Dat dat's a crime?

Eh! w'at? Den taka look at me, For here bayfore your eyes you see Wan thief dat ees so glad an' proud He gona brag of eet out loud! So moocha good I do, an' feel From dat wan leetla rose I steal, Dat eef I gon' to jail to-day Dey could no tak' my joy away. So, lees'en! here ees how eet com': Las' night w'en I am walkin' home From work een hotta ceety street, Ees sudden com' a smal so sweet Eet maka heaven een my nose— I look an' dere I see da rose! Not wan, but manny, fine an' tall, Dat peep at me above da wall. So, too, I close my eyes an' find Anudder peecture een my mind; I see a house dat's small an' hot Where manny pretta theengs is not, Where leetla woman, good an' true, Ees work so hard da whole day through, She's too wore out, w'en com's da night, For smile an' mak' da housa bright.

But, presto! now I'm home an' she Ees settin' on da step weeth me. Bambino, sleepin' on her breast, Ees nevva know more sweeta rest, An' nevva was sooch glad su'prise Like now ees shina from her eyes; An' all baycause to-night she wear Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair. She ees so please'! Eet mak' me feel I shoulda sooner learned to steal.

Eef "thief's" my name I feel no shame; Eet ees no crime— Dat rose I got. Eh! w'at? O! not Een Juna-time!

The man who wants a garden fair, Or small or very big, With flowers growing here and there, Must bend his back and dig.

The things are mighty few on earth That wishes can attain. Whate'er we want of any worth We've got to work to gain.

It matters not what goal you seek, Its secret here reposes: You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses.