THIS rose, to which each dawn anew
Come bees to fill their honey-sacks,
Though sweet in shape, and scent, and hue,
Perfection lacks.
To gain it were to crown one's toil
And set the very world astir:
Blow, Rose, make most of sap and soil,
Strive, Gardener!
Though Youth may dwell some honeyed years
In Arcady, most true is this —
There is no joy unmixed with tears,
No perfect bliss.
Though Love, on high adventure set,
Complete achievement may not know —
Reach out your white arms, Juliet!
Climb, Romeo!