On Reading The

In a Kentish Rose Garden. Beside a Dial in the leafy close, Where every bush was burning with the Rose, With million roses falling flake by flake Upon the lawn in fading summer snows: I read the Persian Poet's rhyme of old, Each thought a ruby in a ring of gold-- Old thoughts so young, that, after all these years, They're writ on every rose-leaf yet unrolled. You may not know the secret tongue aright The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write; Only a poet may perchance translate Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light.