The Rose of the World

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream？
For these red lips， with all their mournful pride，

Mournful that no new wonder may betide，

Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam，

And Usnas children died.

We and the labouring world are passing by：

Amid mens souls， that waver and give place

Like the pale waters in their wintry race，

Under the passing stars， foam1 of the sky，

Lives on this lonely face.

Bow down， archangels， in your dim abode2：

Before you were， or any hearts to beat，

Weary and kind one lingered by His seat；

He made the world to be a grassy3 road

Before her wandering feet.