The Secret Rose -
Poem by William Butler Yeats
Far off, most secret and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours, where those
Who sought thee in 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....
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?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?
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William Butler Yeats
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