and decays; the chirping sparrow perches serenely on its boughs, only to find it wrapped in sadness and solemnity―yet its grief-stained leaf and weather beaten branches silently chant euphonic choruses in natural song, in solemn commemoration of its faded splendor.
Dead, yes dead―but in thy hibernal demise dost thou bequeath a truth eternal as the stars. I saw thee, Rose, when the elf of spring hung thy floral firstling upon that thorny bower and robed thy ungainly form in a garb of green, and, Rose, thou wert sweet!
I saw the same vernal sprite pay homage to thy highbrowed kinsman in yonder stench-bestifled dell, and, in his pause of an instant, baptized its sacred being in the same aromatic blood. I saw thee, Rose, in thy autumnal desolation, when the Storm-God was wont to do thee harm, laid waste thy foliage, and cast at thy feet, as a challenge, his mantle of snow, and the Law of Non-resistance was still unbroken.
Tell me thy story, Rose! Do the stars in their unweary watch breathe forth upon thee a special benediction from the sky? Or did the wind waft a drop of blood from the Cross to thy dell to sanctify thy being? Oh, leave me not, thou Redeemer of the Woods, to plod the way alone! My Nazarene, grant but to me a double portion of thy humble pride―and in my tearful grief permit thou me to pluck a fragrant thought from thy thorny bosom!
V. R. Nathaniel Dett
Primarily a composer and pianist, Mr. Dett exemplifies the close kinship of poetry and music,
