The Sermon Of The Rose

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!