Classic Poem

And have we left the roses far behind?
Are never any flowers and soft green leaves
Waiting to gladden us, — no golden sheaves
Bright underneath the sun-warmed August wind?
What shall we in the fierce strange journey find
Of rapture, as our struggling step achieves
Height after height, while every height deceives,
Each seeming that dim mount for which we pined?

Oh, far and fair the deep green valleys glow!
The valleys that we left so long ago,
Climbing we knew not whither with joined hands.
But one white flower I carry with me thence, —
Thine heart: more sweet than rosebud, more intense
Than all the wild scents of the hot low lands.