Roses

We all go, we all have been, and still shall go
Down, down into the gave
Where all it dust—all dust and dreams.
And our sorry hopes spoken moons ago.
Rise like thin fluted silver ghosts in the solemn air;
Lives be broken by some strange music
As sands on vibrating glass—

* * * *

Now roses blow above in grateful glee
And the pale curve of petals moving in the wind
Is the stir of your breasts in the slow moonlight.
I love roses.
Their calm whisper is the question in your eyes.
Ah, but I'd rather have your eyes than ail the roses!
And this leaf against my finger tip
Is the pang of some kiss from your wild lips.

* * * *

Tell me, were you a dream, or only dust—
I know not which is dream and which is dust.

—Vesta Emanuel.