The Thirteenth has come again . . . But is still the first, And is always the only one-at the one moment. But art thou, oh my Queen, the first or the last? Art thou, King, the sole or the final lover? Love her who loves you from the cradle to the grave; She whom alone I love, loves me most tenderly: Death she is, or the dead . . . Oh delight, oh torment! The rose that she holds is the Mallow, the one in many. Holy Neapolitan with your hands full of fire, Rose with a violet heart, Saint Gudule's flower; Have you discovered your cross in the desert of sky? Wither, white roses, fall; you insult our gods! Fall, white phantoms, out of your burning sky; -The saint of the abyss is more saintly to my eye! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MERCY OF LAZARUS by STEPHEN DOBYNS HOW THE GREAT GUEST CAME by EDWIN MARKHAM DOMESDAY BOOK: AT FAIRBANKS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EDITH CONANT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE BURIAL OF BOSTON CORBETT (ONE WARDEN TO ANOTHER) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DON JUAN'S SONG by ISAAC ROSENBERG HYBRIDS OF WAR: A MORALITY POEM: 3. THAILALND by KAREN SWENSON |