QUESTIONING A ROSE
It was fair, it was sweet, And it blossomed at my feet. “O thou peerless rose!” I said, “Art thou heir to roses dead— Roses that their petals shed In the winds of long ago? Who bequeathed to thee the glow Of thy perfect, radiant heart? What proud queen of fire and snow Lived to make thee what thou art?
Who gave thee thy nameless grace And the beauty of thy face, Touched thy lips with fragrant wine, Pledging thee in cups divine? On some long-forgotten day, When earth kept glad holiday, One bright rose was born, I think, Dewy, sweet, and soft and pink— Born, more blest than others are, To be thy progenitor!
Oh, the roses that have died In the unremembered Junes! Oh, the roses that have sighed Unto long-forgotten runes! Dost thou know their secrets dear? Have they whispered in thine ear Mysteries of the rain and dew, And the sunshine that they knew? Have they told thee how the breeze Wooed them, and the amorous bees?
Silent, art thou? Thy repose Mocks me, yet I fain would know Art thou kin to one rare rose Of a summer long ago? It was sweet, it was fair; Someone twined it in my hair, When my young cheek, blushing red, Shamed the roses, someone said. Dust and ashes though it be, Still its soul lives on in thee.”