Classic Poem

No wild thing ever blossomed on the mountain,
Or opened longing lids to greet the light,
Or kissed the moonbeams when the gentle shadows
Fell on the lips of night;
No rose that languishes in orient gardens,
Or crimsons in the valleys of the west
Could match the beauty of the rosebud opening
So sweetly on your breast.

No green leaf blushes to its autumn glory
Touched with the wizardry of wind and frost;
No leaf was ever lifted by the tempest
And in the wildwood lost,
One half so lovely as those breathing petals
Pressed by your lips and by your love caressed
Where, near your heart, they rise and fall, soft-nestled —
The rose-leaves on your breast.

Breathe rapture, and forevermore those petals —
The music of your passion, silence-shod —
Shall steal into my heart in dream to whisper
The loveliness of God.
He gave me here one rosebud of His beauty,
All redolent of joy and faith and rest,
And thrilled me with the fragrance and the wonder
Of the rose-leaves on your breast.