ROSE AND ROOF-TREE. O wayward rose, why dost thou wreathe so high, Wasting thyself in sweet-breath’d ecstasy? The pulses of the wind my life uplift, And through my sprays I feel the sunlight sift; And all my fibres, in a quick consent Entwined, aspire to fill their heavenward bent. I feel the shaking of the far-off sea, And all things growing blend their life with me: When men and women on me look, there glows Within my veins a life not of the rose. Then let me grow, until I touch the sky, And let me grow and grow until I die! So, every year, the sweet rose shooteth higher, And scales the roof upon its wings of fire, And pricks the air, in lovely discontent, With thorns that question still of its intent.