The Flower A flame of gold and red combined, Here blooms the flower then and now; Within the dreams of every vine, A tapestry makes what’s true.

The tide, the bend of every breeze, Will catch its scent and wait to hold; Yet, through my breath, I seek the ease, Of nature pure and sweetly bold.

And where rumor sings, as whisper soft, The light upon the petals bright, And in its shade, in buoyant loft, The beauty there of the soft twilight.

For when I lay the heart anew, A mystery, sweet as the dew, In listening gold to night’s own hue, Will find the flower blooms in every view.

• Alfred Lord Tennyson