The Secret Scarlet Rose
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand wlaking among flaming dew
By a gray shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred morns had flowered red,
Feasted and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods;
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless years,
Until he found with laughter and with tears,
A woman, of so shining loveliness,
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I, too, await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?
Yeats
The Rose of Sa'adi
I wanted this morning to bring you a gift of roses;
But I took so many in my wide belt,
The tightened knots could not contain them all,
And burst asunder. The roses taking wing
On the wind, were all blown out to sea,
Following the water, never to return;
The waves were red with them as if aflame.
This evening my dress bears their perfume still.
You may take from it now their fragrant souvenir.
The Rose Is Not The Rose
To, With a Rose
I asked my heart to say
Some word whose worth my love's devoir might pay
Upon my Lady's natal day.
Then said my heart to me:,
Learn from the rhyme that now shall come to thee
What fits thy Love most lovingly.
This gift that learning shows;
For, as a rhyme unto its rhyme-twin goes,
I send a rose unto a Rose.
Sidney Lanier
The Rose Is Not The Rose
The rose is not the rose unless thou see;
Without good wine, spring is not spring to me.
Without thy tulip cheek, the gracious air
Of gardens and of meadows is not fair.
Thy rosy limbs, unless I may embrace,
Lose for my longing eyes full half their grace;
Nor does thy scarlet mouth with honey drip
Unless I taste its honey, lip to lip.
Vainly the cypress in the zephyr sways,
Unless the nightingale be there to praise.
Nothing the mind imagines can be fair,
Except the picture that it makes of her.
Surely good wine is good, and green the end
of gardens old, but not without the Friend.
Hafiz, the metal of thy soul is base;
Stamp not upon it the Beloved's face.
Hafiz
