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Sidney Lanier - Rose-Morals
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  I. — Red.

 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 yet 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,
That virginal-prayerful art shall be thy breath,
   Thy work, thy fate.
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