Chapter XII: Rosa Mundi

O life that flowered at the very top of the tree,
Redder than all the roses out of the South,
This was the blossom colored and wrought for me,
Sweeter than scarlet bloom of a maiden's mouth.

Fain would I climb, and fain would I reach the flower.
Ah, but the tree was tall as the flower was fair!
Weary I grew and slept through the noonday hour;
Winds caught my fate and strewed it over the air.