Classic Poem

From the rose-gardens of Time, fragrant and fresh, in ecstasies of light — Day has come! How many an age of silent love hath breathed and breathed upon his cheeks that tender flush of rose?
The blue in his eyes — from what lakes of enchantment hath he drunk? The radiant colours of his thought — from what infinite wonder hath he made? The glory of his love for whom, for whom hath he brought? For whom, for whom the music of his clouds, his winds, his birds? The secrets of his soul for whom, for whom?
A Lotus-bud has opened; ere she was born the pain of a vast music did fill and fill her soul with a vain constant hope; in the ecstasy of that pain she bloomed into flower.
The Lotus dreams upon the lyric melodies of Day.
In the sunset hush of evening she folds her petals upon the memories of Day, enwoven with her fragrant devotions.
In the secrecy of Night she sings her praise, making the deeps of the dark melodious.
The glory of his love for whom, for whom doth he bring? For whom, for whom the music of his clouds, his winds, his birds?
The secrets of his soul for whom, for whom?