I AM here myself; as though this heave of
effort
At starting
other life, fulfilled my own:
Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a
core
Of
seed-specks kindled lately and softly
blown
By all the blood of the rose-bush into being-
—
Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set
My mouth on hers in kisses,
and so softly
To
bring together two strange sparks, beget
Another life from our lives, so should send
The innermost fire of my own
dim soul out- spinning
And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon
me!
That my
completion of manhood should be the
beginning
Another life from mine! For so it looks.
The seed is purpose, blossom
accident.
The seed
is all in all, the blossom lent
To crown the triumph of this new
descent.
Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?
The Great Breath blowing a
tiny seed of fire
Fans out your petals for excess of flame,
Till all your being smokes
with fine desire?
Or are we kindled, you and I, to be
One rose of wonderment upon
the tree
Of
perfect life, and is our possible seed
But the residuum of the
ecstasy?
How will you have it? — the rose is all in
all,
Or the ripe
rose-fruits of the luscious fall?
The sharp begetting, or the child
begot?
Our
consummation matters, or does it not?
To me it seems the seed is just left over
From the red rose-flowers’
fiery transience;
Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush
Which burnt just now with
marvellous immanence.
Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose
Of roses unchidden and
purposeless; a rose
For rosiness only, without an ulterior
motive;
For me it
is more than enough if the flower un-
close.