A Rosary Moulded of Rose Leaves

Could anything more lovely be
Than is a rose-leaf rosary —

Wherein a garden bows its head,
And folds its hands and prays, though dead?

A cloister close, where roses wear —
The world forsook — the veil of prayer.

Out of the grave of summer rise
These postulants of Paradise.

Roses that morning robed with white
Go softly here in stoles of light.

Roses the heart of June has bled,
With deeper Passion here are red.

In raptures glorious enfolden,
The golden rose is yet more golden.

The shrouding mysteries they wear
But show their loveliness more fair.

Could anything so proper be
As is a rose-leaf rosary? —

Roses that worshiped God an hour,
Turned into prayers that are a flower.
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