The Rose of the World

    For these red lips， with all their mournful pride，

    Mournful that no new wonder may betide，

    Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam，

    And Usna‘s children died.

    We and the labouring world are passing by：

    Amid men‘s souls， that waver and give place

    Like the pale waters in their wintry race，

    Under the passing stars， foam¹ of the sky，

    Lives on this lonely face.

    Bow down， archangels， in your dim abode²：

    Before you were， or any hearts to beat，

    Weary and kind one lingered by His seat；

    He made the world to be a grassy³ road

    Before her wandering feet.