They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,
Or out of earth, or in the height,
Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,
Or two that pass, in light, to light,
Out of the garden, higher, higher....
But in that instant they shall learn
The shattering ecstasy of our fire,
And the weak passionless hearts will burn
And faint in that amazing glow,
Until the darkness close above;
And they will know—poor fools, they'll know!—
One moment, what it is to love.
Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]
BALLAD
The roses in my garden
Were white in the noonday sun,
But they were dyed with crimson
Before the day was done.
All clad in golden armor,
To fight the Saladin,
He left me in my garden,
To weep, to sing, and spin.
When fell the dewy twilight
I heard the wicket grate,
There came a ghost who shivered
Beside my garden gate.
All clad in golden armor,
But dabbled with red dew;
He did not lift his vizor,
And yet his face I knew.