Those white and crimson roses, shy, demure,
And sweetly nestling on the silver tray!
What are they, fairy saint, so soft, so pure?
Eternal blooms of God's eternal day
You plucked from Mary's garden? Or are they
Red kisses playful cherubs stole from you
And smiling strewed upon our earth? Oh, say!
When time to light your star-lamps' varied hue,
Did your hands tremble, and upon us drop...a few?
These are your roses, Little Flower, blooms
That may mean many things, but they to me
Are petals of yourself, that on the tombs
Of marbled hearts are gently falling free,
So, crumbling, these may loose that soul to be
A seeker of the heights upon whose air
Are spilt your fragrant sighs of purity.
And how I wish I were some angel fair,
O Little Flower, gazing on your beauty there!
― Horacio Luis de la Costa y Villamayor, A.B. 1935
Manila, 30 September 1931
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| Sainte Thérèse de L'Enfant Jesus by Edgar Maxence. 1931. Oil on canvas. Royal College of Saint Alban, Valladolid, Spain. |
(Image source)
