  Against a quivering, golden beam, Where dance a myriad winged things, A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream, While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings, It sends from wealth of a perfume sweet An offering up to the happy bard, Whose flood of melody flows to meet The floating essence of wild-rose nard. The flush of pink amid shades of green, Is like a wreath for a June-day bride, Its crown is decked with a lustrous sheen, Yet it has gloom where the fairies hide, For this is midsummer’s perfect eve, When minds are roving on fancy’s wing, When hearts are young and all things believe, And childhood’s gladness from long since bring. A rare creation, a gift divine, This rosebush is in my garden nook, Whose beauty all of the sacred Nine Would fancy more than the wisest book, For not a poet in any age Did joyful loveliness e’er express Like that which lolls round the unseen mage, So perfect, charming, and effortless. It stands apart from the world of woe, An yet has balm for the troubled mind, An holy altar where one may know The joy of beauty, and solace find, Since God is there as in days of eld, (For I have always in secret held, That bush had also its roses borne.) From crowds pretentious and gibbering, I turn oppressed to this holy place, Instead of clamor, the thrushes sing, Instead of crudeness, the perfect grace; My soul is free, as I bend to kiss The smiling rose, whose enchanting breath Fills all my being with such a bliss, That I could wish it the sting of death. |
|
