I AM here myself; as though this heave of effort      At starting other life, fulfilled my own:
     Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core
     Of seed-specks kindled¹ lately and softly blown
 
     By all the blood of the rose-bush into being—
     Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set
     My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly
     To bring together two strange sparks, beget²
 
     Another life from our lives, so should send
     The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-
        spinning
     And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon
        me!
     That my completion of manhood should be the
        beginning
 
     Another life from mine! For so it looks.
     The seed is purpose, blossom accident.
     The seed is all in all, the blossom lent
     To crown the triumph of this new descent.
 
     Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so?
     The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire
     Fans out your petals³ for excess of flame,
     Till all your being smokes with fine desire?
 
     Or are we kindled, you and I, to be
     One rose of wonderment upon the tree
     Of perfect life, and is our possible seed
     But the residuum of the ecstasy⁴?
 
     How will you have it?—the rose is all in all,
     Or the ripe rose-fruits of the luscious⁵ fall?
     The sharp be............