Perfection
THIS rose, to which each dawn anew
Come bees to fill their honey-sacks,
Though sweet in shape, and scent, and hue,
Perfection lacks.
To gain it were to crown one’s toil
And set the very world astir:
Blow, Rose, make most of sap and soil,
Strive, Gardener!
Though Youth may dwell some honeyed years
In Arcady, most true is this—
There is no joy unmixed with tears,
No perfect bliss.
Though Love, on high adventure set,
Complete achievement may not know—
Reach out your white arms, Juliet!
Climb, Romeo!
