"The pulses of the wind my life uplift,
And through my sprays I feel the sunlight sift;
"And all my fibres, in a quick consent
Entwined, aspire to fill their heavenward bent.
"I feel the shaking of the far-off sea,
And all things growing blend their life with me:
"When men and women on me look, there glows
Within my veins a life not of the rose.
"Then let me grow, until I touch the sky,
And let me grow and grow until I die!"
So, every year, the sweet rose shooteth higher,
And scales the roof upon its wings of fire,
And pricks the air, in lovely discontent,
With thorns that question still of its intent.
But when it reached the roof-tree, there it clung,
Nor ever farther up its blossoms flung.
O wayward rose, why hast thou ceased to climb?
Hast thou forgot the ardor of thy prime?
"O hearken!"—thus the rose-spray, listening,—
"With what weird music sweet these full hearts ring!