You are the dreams we do not dare to dream,

The dim florescence of a mystic rose,

In poverty or pride love comes and goes,

We do not question what the deeps may seem

Launched on the steady current of the stream.

Gaily and hardily we hear the prose;

In youth, red sun, in age the charnel snows.

Nor see the banks where subtle flowers gleam,

In green sweet beds of moly and of thyme

Wild as an errant fancy. All the while

We know you, mystic rose; we know your smile,

Your deep, still eyes, your fragrant floating hair,

The peacock purple of the gown you wear,

O lyric alchemist of rune and rhyme!