There is a walled garden where the flowers never pale
or turn dark
A fiery dream couched in sunlight when the rose
Burns redly over her seeds and the waterlily breaks
A surface of deep lake without strain.
Her fire is white and many-petalled with a golden spark
(Caught from the sun?)in its well guarded core;
only one floating root shows
Red, crimson of the clear sort. There is nothing opaque
In her, not even that singular most curious vein
Which must once have leaped in a long arc
To the sun! Enclose
Your self and seek the inmost gold
the rose and the lily——
Put your arms around me. Our winter is real.
(Bron: Love Poems of Elizabeth Sargent/The New American Library)