THE CLAY TO THE ROSE
O beautiful, royal Rose, O Rose, so fair and sweet! Queen of the garden art thou, And I—the Clay at thy feet!
The butterfly hovers about thee; The brown bee kisses thy lips; And the humming-bird, reckless rover, Their marvellous sweetness sips.
The sunshine hastes to caress thee Flying on pinions fleet; The dew-drop sleeps in thy bosom, But I—I lie at thy feet!
The radiant morning crowns thee; And the noon’s hot heart is thine; And the starry night enfolds thee In the might of its love divine;
I hear the warm rain whisper Its message soft and sweet; And the south-wind’s passionate murmur, While I lie low at thy feet!
It is not mine to approach thee; I never may kiss thy lips, Or touch the hem of thy garment With tremulous finger-tips.
Yet, O thou beautiful Rose! Queen rose, so fair and sweet, What were lover or crown to thee Without the Clay at thy feet?