The Spirit of the Rose

Though with a dozen dancers I have felt

That tragic dream, and shared it as it passed,

This lady gave the memory that will last,

All had a skill, with this one Beauty dealt.

The bedroom, like its owner, white and sweet,

Sees the child sleeping in the Summer dawn,

In her white slumber, in the whitest lawn,

While the last dew knows the first blackbird’s feet.

Then, as the waltz tune rises to its crash,

The spirit of all youthful Summer leaps,

Touches the white dream into life, and sweeps

Its spark to flame, that droops to glowing ash.

Then the white child returns into her snows.

Having but memory and a fallen rose.

John Masefield