How splendid in the morning grows the lily: with what grace he throws <br />His supplication to the rose: do roses nod the head, Yasmin? <br /> <br />But when the silver dove descends I find the little flower of friends <br />Whose very name that sweetly ends I say when I have said, Yasmin. <br /> <br />The morning light is clear and cold: I dare not in that light behold <br />A whiter light, a deeper gold, a glory too far shed, Yasmin. <br /> <br />But when the deep red light of day is level with the lone highway, <br />And some to Meccah turn to pray, and I toward thy bed, Yasmin; <br /> <br />Or when the wind beneath the moon in drifting like a soul aswoon, <br />And harping planets talk love's tune with milky wings outspread, Yasmin, <br /> <br />Shower down thy love, O burning bright! For one night or the other night, <br />Will come the Gardener in white, and gathered flowers are dead, Yasmin.<br /><br />James Elroy Flecker<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/yasmin-a-ghazel/
