Poems of Philip Henry Savage / Philip Henry Savage [electronic text]

XXII

ROSE IN GRAY

LIGHTLY moves the silver moon Through these glimmering nights of June, Lightly falls, and in the shine Of her moon-rays hyaline, Lifts the nightfall and the hush From the red rose on the bush, And the rose's heart discovers To her nightly wandering lovers

I could tell you, Phyllis dear, How the rose looked faint and clear In the moonlight; how she burned Like the sacred fire inurned; Distant, with the far-withdrawn Sweet shamefacedness of dawn; Quaintly cool, with yet the glow Of a lamp through falling snow.

So; but when I whisper, "Sweet, Take my hand, come let us see 't," 'T is the very smothered rose In your milk-white cheek that glows.