O summer, with thy magic gift of flowers
And soft bird voices, musicking the breeze,
While yet thy roses stir the lazy air
My soul wings back thro' centuries, as hours.
It journeys till it 'lights within a court
Where roses riot o'er veined-marble walls,
Where peacocks strut along the broad white steps,
Or over broideries by fair hands wrought.
Within the palace, divanned, rests a king,
Who watches listlessly the fountain's jet;
And at his feet the poet Saadi stands
And hears intent th' captured bulbuls sing.
A slave with soul on freedom bent he stands,
His eyes ablaze with restless ecstasy,
While all around him breathes magnificence
Of power imperial over many lands.
Within his slender hand he holds a rose;
Raising his head, he murmurs, " Mighty King!
Do good unto thy servant while thou canst:
Thou may'st not always mitigate his woes.
" Like to this fleeting glory, carmined deep,
The season of thy power is transient:
Do good, whilst yet thou canst—'before thine eyes
Close in thy last, forgetting, silent sleep. "
O blood-red rose! Thy petals bring to me
The sunlit beauty of the Persian Court,
The voice of Saadi, pleading with the king
His freedom granted on thy crimson plea.
A ROSE-GARDEN IN AIREDALE.