Rose Of All The World

I am here myself; as though this heave of effort     At starting other life, fulfilled my own:     Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core     Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown     By all the blood of the rose-bush into being -     Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set     My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly     To bring together two strange sparks, beget     Another life from our lives, so should send     The innermost fire of my own dim soul out- spinning     And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me!     That my completion of manhood should be the beginning     Another life from mine! For so it looks.     The seed is purpose, blossom accident.     The seed is all in all, the blossom lent     To crown the triumph of this new descent.     Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?     The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire     Fans out your petals for excess of flame,     Till all your being smokes with fine desire?     Or are we kindled, you and I, to be     One rose of wonderment upon the tree     Of perfect life, and is our possible seed     But the residuum of the ecstasy?     How will you have it? - the rose is all in all,     Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious fall?     The sharp begetting, or the child begot?     Our consummation matters, or does it not?     To me it seems the seed is just left over     From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience;     Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush     Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.     Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose     Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose     For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive;     For me it is more than enough if the flower un- close.