[Editor: This poem by Mary Eliza Fullerton was published in Moods and Melodies: Sonnets and Lyrics (1908).]
The Rose on the Lattice.
You were born on my lattice oh wonderful thing,
As old as creation yet new as the spring,
And the odours of Eden about you still cling.
You are daughter of roses that tumbled their flower
On the couch of old Omar in Naishapur’s bower,
And descendant of other when Herod had power,
And Nero and Alfred. Still simple and fresh
And unspoiled by your peerage you nod on the mesh
Of my south window lattice your delicate flesh.
Your tints are old sunsets, inwoven with new,
A million of dawns had the making of you —
Let me peep in your heart for a beautiful clue.
A bee takes your honey, and I have my dream,
The poet his fancy, the artist the gleam;
Your message to each is whatever it seem.
Oh summer your ardour has loosened a leaf
Or the wings of the bee in the flight of the thief;
By your lovers sweet rose is your life rendered brief.
My dream it is drooping by Beauty create,
The moment is past, I must hasten nor wait,
The fingers of Life are a-knock at the gate.
So I go, and to-morrow your bloom will be done,
And another be born at the birth of the sun;
For thus is the web ever ravelled and spun.
Source:
Mary E. Fullerton, Moods and Melodies: Sonnets and Lyrics, Melbourne: Thomas C. Lothian, 1908, pp. 59-60
Editor’s notes:
bower = a shaded, leafy resting place or shelter, usually located within a garden or park and often made of latticework upon which plants (especially vines) are grown, or made out of intertwined tree boughs or vines (also known as an “arbor”) (“bower” can also refer to a country cottage or retreat, or to a woman’s bedroom or apartments in a medieval castle or mansion)
Leave a Reply