far off, most secret, and inviolate rose,

enfold me in my hour of hours; where those

who sought thee at the holy sepulchre,

or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir

and tumult of defeated dreams; and deep

among pale eyelids heavy with the sleep

men have named beauty. your great leaves enfold

the ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold

of the crowned magi; and the king whose eyes

saw the pierced hands and rood of elder rise

in druid vapour and make the torches dim;

till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him

who met fand walking among flaming dew,

by a grey shore where the wind never blew,

and lost the world and emir for a kiss;

and him who drove the gods out of their liss

and till a hundred morns had flowered red

feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;

and the proud dreaming king who flung the crown

and sorrow away, and calling bard and clown

dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods;

and him who sold tillage and house and goods,

and sought through lands and islands numberless years

until he found with laughter and with tears

a woman of so shining loveliness

that men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,

a little stolen tress. i too await

the hour of thy great wind of love and hate.

when shall the stars be blown about the sky,

like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?

surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,

far off, most secret, and inviolate rose?