THIS Rose so exquisite, So perfect, so complete, Beauty beyond all price, With the hour it dies. God makes Him roses fast, With such magnificent haste, Multitudes, multitudes, In gardens, fields, and woods. The roses tell His praise Their little length of days; Testify to His Name, Gold on gold, flame on flame. They are scarce here, scarce blown, But they are gone, are flown; The gardener's broom must sweep them And in the darkness heap them. Drift of rose-leaves upon The garden-bed, the lawn: The exquisite thought of God Is scattered, wasted abroad. What of the soul of the Rose? It shall not die with those; It shall wake, shall live again In God's rose-garden. It shall climb rose-trellises Before God's palaces. The Eternal Rose shall cover The House of God all over. She shall breathe out her soul And yet living, made whole, Shall offer her oblation Out of her purest passion. She shall know all bliss Where God's garden is: The Rose drinking her fill is Of joy with her sister lilies. Where the Water of Life sweet Bathes her from head to feet, The River of Life flows, There is the Rose. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES by FRANCOIS VILLON HOLY THURSDAY, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE TO A CATY-DID by PHILIP FRENEAU GREENWOOD CEMETERY by CRAMMOND KENNEDY THE ANGEL'S WHISPER by SAMUEL LOVER |