THE SERMON OF THE ROSE

Wilful we are in our infirmity

Of childish questioning and discontent.

Whate'er befalls us is divinely meant —

Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery!

Make us to meet what is or is to be

With fervid welcome, knowing it is sent

To serve us in some way full excellent,

Though we discern it all belatedly.

The rose buds, and the rose blooms and the rose

Bows in the dews, and in its fulness, lo,

Is in the lover's hand,— then on the breast

Of her he loves,— and there dies.— And who knows

Which fate of all a rose may undergo

Is fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest?

Nay, we are children: we will not mature.

A blessed gift must seem a theft; and tears

Must storm our eyes when but a joy appears

In drear disguise of sorrow; and how poor

We seem when we are richest,— most secure

Against all poverty the lifelong years

We yet must waste in childish doubts and fears

That, in despite of reason, still endure!

Alas! the sermon of the rose we will

Not wisely ponder; nor the sobs of grief

Lulled into sighs of rapture; nor the cry

Of fierce defiance that again is still.

Be patient — patient with our frail belief,

And stay it yet a little ere we die.

O opulent life of ours, though dispossessed

Of treasure after treasure! Youth most fair

Went first, but left its priceless coil of hair —

Moaned over sleepless nights, kissed and caressed

Through drip and blur of tears the tenderest.

And next went Love — the ripe rose glowing there

Her very sister!... It is here; but where

Is she, of all the world the first and best?

And yet how sweet the sweet earth after rain —

How sweet the sunlight on the garden wall

Across the roses — and how sweetly flows

The limpid yodel of the brook again!

And yet — and yet how sweeter after all,

The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose!