Rose In Gray Poem by Philip Henry Savage

LIGHTLY moves the silver moon
Through these glimmering nights of June,
Lightly falls, and in the shine
Of her moon-rays hyaline,
Lifts the nightfall and the hush
From the red rose on the bush,
And the rose's heart discovers
To her nightly wandering lovers

I could tell you, Phyllis dear,
How the rose looked faint and clear
In the moonlight; how she burned
Like the sacred fire inurned;
Distant, with the far-withdrawn
Sweet shamefacedness of dawn;
Quaintly cool, with yet the glow
Of a lamp through falling snow.

So; but when I whisper, 'Sweet,
Take my hand, come let us see 't,'
'T is the very smothered rose
In your milk-white cheek that glows