The secret rose we vainly dream to find,

Was blown in grey Atlantis long ago,

Or in old summers of the realms of snow,

Its attar lulled the pole-arisen wind;

Or once its broad and breathless petals pined

In gardens of Persepolis, aglow

With desert sunlight, and the fiery, slow

Red waves of sand, invincible and blind.

On orient isles, or isles hesperian,

Through mythic days ere mortal time began,

It flowered above the ever-flowering foam;

Or, legendless, in lands of yesteryear,

It flamed among the violets—near, how near,

To unenchanted fields and hills of home!