The old magician of the skies,
    With coloured and sweet-smelling things,
  Shall charm the sense and trance the eyes,
    Still onward through a million springs;
  And nothing old and nothing new
    Into the magic world be born,
  Yea! nothing older than the dew,
    And nothing younger than the morn.

  Delight and Destiny and Death
    Shall still the mortal story weave,
  Man shall not lengthen out his breath,
    Nor stay when it is time to leave;
  And all in vain for him to ask
    His little meaning in the Whole,
  Done well or ill his tiny task,
    The mystic making of his soul.

  Ah! love, and is it not enough
    To have our part in this romance
  Made of such planetary stuff,
    Strange partners in the cosmic dance? 
  Though Life be all too swift a dream,
    And its fair rose must fade and fall,
  Life has no sorrow in its scheme
    As never to have lived at all.

  This fire that through our being runs,
    When our two hearts together beat,
  Is one with yonder burning sun’s,
    Two atoms that in glory meet;
  What unimagined loss it were,
    If that dread power in which we trust
  Had left your eyes, your lips, your hair,
    Nought but un-animated dust.

  Unknown the thrilling touch divine
    That sets our magic clay aflame,
  That wrought your beauty to be mine,
    And joy enough to speak your name;
  Thanks be to Life that did this thing,
    Unsought, beloved, for you and me,
  Gave us the rose, and birds to sing,
    The golden earth, the blue-robed sea.

  The loveliest face and the wild rose

  The loveliest face!  I turned to her
    Shut in ’mid savage rocks and trees;—­
  ’Twas in the May-time of the year,
    And our two hearts were filled with ease—­
  And pointed where a wild-rose grew,
    Suddenly fair in that grim place: 
  “We should know all, if we but knew
    Whence came this flower, and whence—­this face.”

  The loveliest face!  My thoughts went around: 
    “Strange sister of this little rose,
  So softly ’scaped from underground;
    O tell me if your beauty knows,
  Being itself so fair a thing,
    How came this lovely thing so fair,
  How came it to such blossoming,
    Leaning so strangely from the air?

  “The wonder of its being born,
    So lone and lovely—­even as you—­
  Half maiden-moon, half maiden-morn,
    And delicately sad with dew;
  How came it in this rocky place? 
    Or shall I ask the rose if she
  Knows how this marvel of your face
    On this harsh planet came to be?”

  Earth’s bluest eyes gazed into mine,
    And on her head Earth’s brightest gold
  Made all the rocks with glory shine—­
    But still the secret went untold;
  For rose nor girl, no more than I,
    Their own mysterious meaning knew,
  Save that alike from earth and sky
    Each her enchanted being drew.