Hesternæ Rosæ

BETWEEN the bounds of night and day,
Far out into the west they lie,
More sweet than any song may say,
The red rose-gardens of the sky.

Beyond the sunset wrack forlorn,
Of tower and temple overthrown,
Of fallen fort and banner torn,
Burns the red flame of roses blown.

Through jeweled jalousies ajar,
That ruddy lustre shines aslant
From terraced vistas stretching far, —
The mellow light of old romaunt.

’T is there the vanished roses blow
In splendor of eternal prime,
That graced the summers long ago,
The royal revels of old time.

The faded pageants’ flush and bloom,
The pomp and pride of all things fair,
Like golden censers of perfume
Exhale upon that haunted air.

The rainbow fountains plash and play,
The falling water gleams and pales,
While echoes every cloistered way
With piping of the nightingales.

And who are they whose happy feet
May thread that petal-clustered maze,
Of all who found the roses sweet,
Of all who sang the summers’ praise?

What fair and stately shadows stray
Between the blossoms dewy wet ?
Omar or Ronsard ? Who shall say ?
Or Aucassin and Nicolette ?

We know not of their name or kin,
So far those garden alleys seem !
For there no living man may win
Save on the light wings of a dream.

The brazen mountains tower between,
With crag, and peak, and sheer abyss,
And many a shadow-hung ravine,
And many an airy precipice.

Oh, deep into the west they lie,
Beyond the swiftest swallow’s flight,
The red rose-gardens of the sky,
Between the bounds of day and night.