Maria Rose of the North

Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of the daughter of a caliphate Is come, a rose is come to me. Blow out the candles of your cake. They will not leave you in the dark, Who round with grace this dusky arc Of the grand tour which souls must take. You who have sounded Maria Flakes, And the still pool, to Plato’s mark, Blow out the candles of your cake. They will not leave you in the dark. Yet, for your friends’ benighted sake, Detain your upward-flying spark; Get us that wish, though like the lark You whet your wings till dawn shall break: Blow out the candles of your cake