  From the water-gate of Pekin, where the latticed lanterns glow, Eastward to the Cherry Gardens in the heart of Tokio, There is none who may outrank her, none who answers love’s behest, None of all my seven daughters like the little Rose of Rest. Her eyes are questing colors, matchless mirrors of delight, The turquoise dawn of China and the duskiness of night. Her lips are pouting poppies by love’s tender tempests blown, They tremble with the secrets only Buddha could have known. She cometh in the twilight with the tamarinds and tea; She kneeleth near to serve me in the sweet obscurity. She sayeth not a single word, but ever I am blest, And I fall asleep caressing her, the little Rose of Rest. |
|
