Would that my songs might be

What roses make by day and night—-

Distillments of my clod of misery

Into delight.

Soul! could'st thou bare thy breast

As yon red rose, and dare the day,

All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest?

Say yea—say yea!

Ah, dear my Rose! good-bye!

The wind is up; so drift away.

That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly,

I strive, I pray.

II.—WHITE.

Soul! get thee to the heart

Of yonder tuberose: hide thee there—

There breathe the meditations of thine art

Suffused with prayer.

Of spirit grave but light,

How fervent fragrances uprise

Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white

Virginities!

Mulched with unsavory death,

Grow, Soul! unto such white estate,

Strong art and virginal prayer shall be thy breath,

Thy work, thy fate.