Poems (Denver)/The Crimson Rose
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THE CRIMSON ROSE.
Hast thou no voice to answer to mine own,
To murmur forth one trembling music-tone,
To breathe one hope and bid it not depart,
To gather from the past one single hour,
To pour upon the mind one golden shower?
Rose of the burning heart!
To murmur forth one trembling music-tone,
To breathe one hope and bid it not depart,
To gather from the past one single hour,
To pour upon the mind one golden shower?
Rose of the burning heart!
To please the mind upon the self-same spot,
To call to memory the very thought
Thy strange, wild beauty bringeth? And to be
A thing of inspiration—calling back,
Along life's tearful and repentant track,
One blessed thought of thee?
To call to memory the very thought
Thy strange, wild beauty bringeth? And to be
A thing of inspiration—calling back,
Along life's tearful and repentant track,
One blessed thought of thee?
Answer me, thou that liftest thy crimson cheek,
Unto the azure heavens, as though to speak
Thy blushing praises at a nobler shrine!
Answer me! will the same exquisite glow
That thrills my frame, while gazing on thee now,
In after years, be mine?
Unto the azure heavens, as though to speak
Thy blushing praises at a nobler shrine!
Answer me! will the same exquisite glow
That thrills my frame, while gazing on thee now,
In after years, be mine?
Shall I steal back again into the past,
And live again those hours that would not last,
Shrouding from view the intervening space?
Or shall I snatch one picture from their grasp,
Which tearful memory once again would clasp,
To gaze on its sweet face?
And live again those hours that would not last,
Shrouding from view the intervening space?
Or shall I snatch one picture from their grasp,
Which tearful memory once again would clasp,
To gaze on its sweet face?
Still thou art silent; bat I have a thought
Dawning within, that will not be forgot—
That thou will form one link in memory's chain;
I shall pace onward with my fate and tears,
But the soul wandering to our first, fond years,
Shall meet with thee again.
Dawning within, that will not be forgot—
That thou will form one link in memory's chain;
I shall pace onward with my fate and tears,
But the soul wandering to our first, fond years,
Shall meet with thee again.
Shall breathe the balm that trembles in thy cup,
Shall drink the perfume of thy spirit up,
And pour a soul-breathed incense from her own.
Alas! alas! that burning thoughts and high,
Should thus go forth into the world to die,
Unmourned for, and alone!
Shall drink the perfume of thy spirit up,
And pour a soul-breathed incense from her own.
Alas! alas! that burning thoughts and high,
Should thus go forth into the world to die,
Unmourned for, and alone!
Like thee, sweet rose! too often yielding forth
To hearts that feel not, things of little worth,
The very fragrancy on which they live,
Taking in cheap exchange the cold regard
That jealous caution urges as reward—
All that the world will give!
To hearts that feel not, things of little worth,
The very fragrancy on which they live,
Taking in cheap exchange the cold regard
That jealous caution urges as reward—
All that the world will give!
The heart is too much like thee! scattering round
Its red, ripe leaves upon a cold, hard ground;
Uttering from ruins broken words of love,
Which, though uncared for in this world of ours,
May shape their shining course thro' darksome hours,
And find their way above!
Its red, ripe leaves upon a cold, hard ground;
Uttering from ruins broken words of love,
Which, though uncared for in this world of ours,
May shape their shining course thro' darksome hours,
And find their way above!