There are nine rubies in this Indian ring, And every blood-red ruby is a part Of the nine-petalled rose that is my heart, The elaborate rose of my own fashioning. Not out of any garden have I sought The rose that is more brief than dawn or dew: Stones of the flame and ice, I find in you The image of the heart that I have wrought. For you are cold and burn as though with fire, For you are hard, yet veil soft depths below, And each divided ruby seems to glow With the brief passion of its own desire. Rose of my heart, shall this too be the same? For, when one light catches the wandering rays, They rush together in one consuming blaze Of indivisible and ecstatic flame.
English Poetry - http://eng-poetry.ru/english/index.php. E-mail email@example.com