I. —Red.

Would that my songs might be
  What roses make by day and night—
Distillments of my clod of misery
  Into delight.

Soul, could’st thou bare thy breast
  As yon red rose, and dare the day,
All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest?
  Say yea—say yea!

Ah, dear my Rose, good-bye;
  The wind is up; so; drift away.
That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly,
  I strive, I pray.

II. —White.

Soul, get thee to the heart
  Of yonder tuberose: hide thee there—
There breathe the meditations of thine art
  Suffused with prayer.

Of spirit grave yet light,
  How fervent fragrances uprise
Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white
  Virginities!

Mulched with unsavory death,
  Grow, Soul! unto such white estate,
That virginal-prayerful art shall be thy breath,
  Thy work, thy fate.