Beside a Dial in the leafy close, 
Where every bush was burning with the Rose, 
With million roses falling flake by flake 
Upon the lawn in fading summer snows: 

I read the Persian Poet's rhyme of old, 
Each thought a ruby in a ring of gold-- 
Old thoughts so young, that, after all these years, 
They're writ on every rose-leaf yet unrolled. 

You may not know the secret tongue aright 
The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write; 
Only a poet may perchance translate 
Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light.