For the chalice of life has few sweets for me, But mostly some bitter thing, The flowers which I planted with youthful glee, So often their poison bring, And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past, With remorse for their follies and hopes, That the few joys of life so briefly do last, And the noon-day so rapidly slopes.
Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care, And why should I murmur and fret, While the summer is here, and all nature is fair, And gleams mid the shadows are set? I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays, And dance with the butterflies gay, And dream little less, and enter the ways Of things which remain for a day.
Against a quivering, golden beam, Where dance a myriad winged things, A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream, While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings, It sends from wealth of a perfume sweet An offering up to the happy bard, Whose flood of melody flows to meet The floating essence of wild-rose nard.
The flush of pink amid shades of green, Is like a wreath for a June-day bride, Its crown is decked with a lustrous sheen, Yet it has gloom where the fairies hide, For this is midsummer’s perfect eve, When minds are roving on fancy’s wing, When hearts are young and all things believe, And childhood’s gladness from long since bring.
A rare creation, a gift divine, This rosebush is in my garden nook, Whose beauty all of the sacred Nine Would fancy more than the wisest book, For not a poet in any age Did joyful loveliness e’er express Like that which lolls round the unseen mage, So perfect, charming, and effortless.
It stands apart from the world of woe, An yet has balm for the troubled mind, An holy altar where one may know The joy of beauty, and solace find, Since God is there as in days of eld, When Moses heard Him ’mid flaming thorn, (For I have always in secret held, That bush had also its roses borne.)
From crowds pretentious and gibbering, I turn oppressed to this holy place, Instead of clamor, the thrushes sing, Instead of crudeness, the perfect grace; My soul is free, as I bend to kiss The smiling rose, whose enchanting breath Fills all my being with such a bliss, That I could wish it the sting of death.
There’s a golden light on one side of the tree, On the other there is a shadow, The shadowy side goes out to me, The other runs down to the meadow, And the light is beckoning me away To the leas and fields of new-mown hay, Beckoning out from the shadow.