The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (13.1897)

*54

The Rose

Stephen said his roses grew
All upon a milk-white stem,

Side by side together two,

One a little up from them,

Sweeter than the rose’s breath,
Rosy as the sun riseth,

Warm beside ; that was his death.

Stephen swore, as God knows well,

Just to touch that topmost bud,

He would give his soul to hell—

Soul and body, bones and blood.

Hell has come before he dies ;
Burning, burning there he lies,
But he neither speaks nor cries.

Ah, what might those roses be ?

Once, before the dawn was red,

Did he wander out to see
If the rose were still a-bed ?

Did he find a rose-tree tall
Standing by the garden wall ?
Did he touch the rose of all ?

Stephen, was it worth the pain,

Just to touch a breathing rose ?

Ah, to think of it again,

Look, he smiles despite his throes.

Did he dream that hell would be
Years hereafter ? Now, you see,
Hell is here, and where is she ?

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