THESE roses are as perfect as of old, Those lilies wear their selfsame sunny white; I, only I, am changed and sad and cold. The morning star still glorifies the night, And musical that fountain in its swell Casts as of old its waters to the light. Oh that I were a rose, so I might dwell Contented in a garden on my thorn, Fulfilling mine appointed fragrance well; Or stainless lily in the summer morn -- Though no man pluck it, yet the honey-bee Knows it for sweetness in its bosom born. Or that I were a star, from sea to sea Guiding the seekers to their port of rest, Guiding them till night's shuffling shadows flee; Or that I were a spring to which, opprest With desert drought, some wearied wayfarer Comes from the barren regions of the West. Then should I stand at peace, and should not err, Or lighten and make beautiful the sky, Or make more glad than frank-incense and myrrh. But now it is not so: I, only I, Am changed and sad and cold, while in my soul The very fountain of delight is dry. |