Recently at a poetry reading someone read The Mystery - by Ralph Hodgson.
Because I had been much moved by a previous poem that was about the beauty of love a poet had for her husband I heard this poem in that context.
HE came and took me by the hand
Up to a red rose tree,
He kept His meaning to Himself
But gave a rose to me.
I did not pray Him to lay bare
The mystery to me,
Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,
And His own face to see.
I heard it as a human loved one taking his/her lover to a red rose tree and how the act and the perfume and sight of the rose spoke volumes without the need for words and without breeching the mystery of the other.
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