  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! |
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