Vachel Lindsay

The Rose of Midnight

THE moon is now an opening flower,
    The sky a cliff of blue. 
The moon is now a silver rose;
    Her pollen is the dew.

Her pollen is the mist that swings
    Across her face of dreams: 
Her pollen is the April rain,
    Filling the April streams.

Her pollen is eternal life,
    Endless ambrosial foam. 
It feeds the swarming stars and fills
    Their hearts with honeycomb.

The earth is but a passion-flower
    With blood upon his crown. 
And what shall fill his failing veins
    And lift his head, bowed down?

This cup of peace, this silver rose
    Bending with fairy breath 
Shall lift that passion-flower, the earth
    A million times from Death!