I.—RED.
Would that my songs might be
What roses make by day and night—-
Distillments of my clod of misery
Into delight.
Soul! could'st thou bare thy breast
As yon red rose, and dare the day,
All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest?
Say yea—say yea!
Ah, dear my Rose! good-bye!
The wind is up; so drift away.
That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly,
I strive, I pray.