The Rose has left the garden, Here she but faintly lives, Lives but for me, Within this little urn of pot-pourri Of all that was And never more can be, While her black berries harden On the wind-shaken tree. Yet if my song a little fragrance gives, 'Tis not all loss, Something I save From the sweet grave Wherein she lies, Something she gave That never dies, Something that may still live In these my words That draw from her their breath, And fain would be her birds Still in her death.
Belovèd, I would tell a ghostly thing That hides beneath the simple name of Spring; Wild beyond hope the news--the dead return, The shapes that slept, their breath a frozen mist, Ascend from out sarcophagus and urn, Lips that were dust new redden to be kissed, Fires that were quenched re-burn.
The gardens of Adonis bloom again, Proserpina may hold the lad no more, That in her arms the winter through hath lain; Up flings he from the hollow-sounding door, Where Love hath bruised her rosy breast in vain: Ah! through their tears--the happy April rain-- They, like two stars aflame, together run, Then lift immortal faces in the sun.
A faint far music steals from underground, And to the spirit's ear there comes the sound, The whisper vague, and rustle delicate, Of myriad atoms stirring in their trance That for the lifted hand of Order wait, Taking their stations in the cosmic dance, Mate linked to mystic mate.
And perished shapes rebuild themselves anew, Nourished on essences of fire and dew, And in earth's cheek, but now so wistful wan, The colour floods, and from deep wells of power Rises the sap of resurrection; The dead branch buds, the dry staff breaks in flower, The grass comes surging on.
These ghostly things that in November died, How come they thus again adream with pride? I saw the Red Rose lying in her tomb, Yet comes she lovelier back, a redder rose; What paints upon her cheek this vampire bloom? Belovéd, when to the dark thy beauty goes, Thee too will Spring re-lume?
Verily, nothing dies; a brief eclipse Is all; and this blessed union of our lips Shall bind us still though we have lips no more: For as the Rose and as the gods are we, Returning ever; but the shapes we wore Shall have some look of immortality More shining than before.