The rose that watches at the gates of morn,
While pours through heaven the splendor of the sun,
Needs none to tell us whence her strength is born,
Nor where her crown of glory she hath won.
And every flower that blooms on hill or plain
In the dull soil hath most divinely wrought
To haunting perfume or to heavenly stain
The sweetness born of her aspiring thought.
O yearnful soul of infinite desire!
With what expectancy we wait the hour