xxi. THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 381 



Are separated to make the seasons gay. 



From roots of ebon darkness, through the mould, 



Spring up the pure white blossoms, one by one ; 



Like human heart whose roots are dark with woe, 



And yet produce the brightest flowers of heaven. 



Its seeming petals green leaves glorified 



Are moonlike made, through the December gloom, 



To light dim insects to their honeyed task, 



And so fulfil the higher ends of life. 



At first, they come up pale and blanched with cold, 



But as the days grow long, a warmer hue, 



Like that which deepens in the summer rose, 



Or tips the daisy's frill, creeps over them ; 



As if they blushed in a white flowerless world, 



To find themselves the only blooming things. 



Unchanged they last until the seed is ripe, 



In which the single life dies for the race. 



And then, their purpose served, they darken down 



Into the dusky green of common leaves. 



Transfiguration strange ! A lowly sign 



Of Him whose robe and face shone whiter far 



Than Hermon's crest, while of His death He talked ! 



That which exalts the flower above its wont, 



Ennobles everything. The priestly dress 



Of beauty and of glory clothes each life 



That yields itself a sacrifice to love. 



THE END. 



