Classic Poem

Send me thorns a half year through,
Branches hung with frozen dew,
Blight-leaf feuds and blanching hates,
(If ye will) ye cankered Fates:
All your leaden seasons' toil
To fair weather lends a foil!
'Gainst December how June glows, —
Hey! the color of the rose!

Bid the morning of my day
(If ye will) be dull and gray;
Chase afar the shining hours
With a scourge of braided showers,
Lightning-flash, and thunder-crack;
But at eve the cloudy rack
Blossoms like a garden-close, —
Hey! the color of the rose!

Beauty, on whom homage waits,
I appeal to thee from Fates.
As my year and as my day
Genial turn from cold and gray,
Let the selfsame sign bespeak
Thy rich heart upon thy cheek.
Up the gracious June warmth goes, —
Hey! the color of the rose!