The Secret Rose by W.B. Yeats

Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, / Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those / Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre, / Or in the wine vat, dwell beyond the stir / And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep / Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep / Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold / The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold / Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes / Saw the Pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise / In druid vapour and make the torches dim; / Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him / Who met Fand walking among flaming dew / By a gray shore where the wind never blew, / And lost the world and Emer for a kiss; / And him who drove the gods out of their liss, / And till a hundred morns had flowered red, / Feasted and wept the barrows of his dead; / And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown / And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown / Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods; / And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods, / And sought through lands and islands numberless years, / Until he found with laughter and with tears.

A woman, of so shining loveliness, / That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress, / A little stolen tress. I, too, await / The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.