Far-off， most secret， and inviolate¹ Rose，

    Enfold me in my hour of hours； where those

    Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre，

    Or in the wine-vat， dwell beyond the stir

    And tumult² of defeated dreams； and deep

    Among pale eyelids³， heavy with the sleep

    Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold

    The ancient beards， the helms of ruby⁴ and gold

    Of the crowned Magi； and the king whose eyes

    Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise

    In Druid vapour and make the torches dim；

    Till vain frenzy⁵ awoke and he died； and him

    Who met Fand walking among flaming dew

    By a grey shore where the wind never blew，

    And lost the world and Emer for a kiss；

    And him who drove the gods out of their liss，

    And till a hundred morns had flowered red

    Feasted， and wept the barrows of his dead；

    And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown

    And sorrow away， and calling bard⁶ and clown

    Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods；

    And him who sold tillage， and house， and goods，

    And sought through lands and islands numberless years，

    Until he found， with laughter and with tears，

    A woman of so shining loveliness

    That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress，

    A little stolen tress. I， too， await

    The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.

    When shall the stars be blown about the sky，

    Like the sparks blown out of a smithy， and die？

    Surely thine hour has come， thy great wind blows，

    Far-off， most secret， and inviolate Rose？

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