Yeats had many roses
and all the roses gone
the letters back and forth
the letters never won except in Song
all the defeats shone in glory
all the defeats were in the rhymes
born of sorrow, the mists of Time
endlessly translated
flowering into dead winter
trailing again the afterswans
ever and ever
the rose red hem
all he asked was the Mystery of them
all the roses cherished, declined
save where Christ climbed.
mythos and beauty reigning.
mary angela douglas 31 july 2023
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