Poems - Women and Roses

I dream of a white rose tree
And which of its roses three
Do I take thee most precious rose to be?  

Round and round like a dance of snow
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
Floating the women faded for ages,
Sculptured in stone, on the poet’s pages.
Then follow women fresh and gay,
Living and loving and loved to-day.
Thee most precious of roses on my rose tree.  

Dear rose, thy term is reached,
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:
Bees pass it unimpeached.  

How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
Break my heart at your feet to please you?
Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,
Drink but once and die!---In vain, the same fashion,
Thee most precious of roses on my rose tree.  

Dear rose, thy unborn joy’s undimmed,
Thy cup is forever white-rimmed,
Thy cup’s heart nectar-brimmed  

Deep, as love waits while I still yearning
So will they bury me while my heart is burning
Your eyes on my eyes, your lips on my lips!
Fold me fast as my body slips
Prison all of my soul in eternities of pleasure
Girdle me for once! But no ---the old measure,
Thee most precious of roses on my rose tree.  

Dear rose without a thorn,
Thy bud’s the babe unborn
First streak of a new morn.  

Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!
What is far conquers what is near.
Roses will bloom nor want beholders,
Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.

What shall arrive with the cycle’s and change
A novel grace and a beauty strange.
I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her
Shaped her to his mind!---Alas! in like manner
Thee most precious of roses on my rose tree.  

Dear rose lost do I still mourn
Never to be, never to scorn
Thy most precious bud is the child unborn