THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE
. The Grave said to the Rose, 'What of the dews of dawn, Love's flower, what end is theirs?' 'And what of spirits flown, The souls whereon doth close The tomb's mouth unawares?' The Rose said to the Grave. The Rose said, 'In the shade From the dawn's tears is made A perfume faint and strange, Amber and honey sweet.' 'And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change, More strangely than the dew, To God's own angels new,' The Grave said to the Rose.
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THE GENESIS OF BUTTERFLIES
. The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings, That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide, With muffled music, murmured far and wide! Ah, Spring time, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays, Of the fond hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound, The messages of love that mortals write Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April, and before the May time Shredded and flown, play things for the wind's play-time, We dream that all white butterflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress in despair, To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
. The Grave said to the Rose, 'What of the dews of dawn, Love's flower, what end is theirs?' 'And what of spirits flown, The souls whereon doth close The tomb's mouth unawares?' The Rose said to the Grave. The Rose said, 'In the shade From the dawn's tears is made A perfume faint and strange, Amber and honey sweet.' 'And all the spirits fleet Do suffer a sky-change, More strangely than the dew, To God's own angels new,' The Grave said to the Rose.
...........................................................................
THE GENESIS OF BUTTERFLIES
. The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings, That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide, With muffled music, murmured far and wide! Ah, Spring time, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays, Of the fond hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound, The messages of love that mortals write Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April, and before the May time Shredded and flown, play things for the wind's play-time, We dream that all white butterflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress in despair, To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
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