Page:Reuben and other poems.pdf/52

 A Red Rose on the left he set, White Lilies on the right: “Bestain’d with blood, beset with thorn, Good in this world is hardly born. Yet, thorns once made a Crown, and Blood Once wash’d a whole world white:

“So now,” he said, “tho’ scarce one bud On my rough branches be, One day, I dare be sure, will God Touch all to bloom my prunèd rod— Father! and being pure at last, Even I shall pleasure Thee!

“ . . . Here, at my heart, white Columbine, Show forth the holy Dove. Yet, do not grudge a little space To this one, with the human face, Heart’s-ease—O excellently named Thou little look of love!

“And do thou, here, at my left hand, Grow thickly, bitter Rue, And thickly from this right hand spring, Sweet Spikenard! that its offering My dust may still afford to God, Of grief and worship due.