charms, without
mentioning her name, but any one could see who was meant; for the bare
title--"The Rose of Orleans"--would reveal that, as it seemed to me. It
pictured this pure and dainty white rose as growing up out of the rude
soil of war and looking abroad out of its tender eyes upon the horrid
machinery of death, and then--note this conceit--it blushes for the
sinful nature of man, and turns red in a single night. Becomes a red
rose, you see--a rose that was white before. The idea was my own, and
quite new. Then it sent its sweet perfume out over the embattled city,
and when the beleaguering forces smelt it they laid down their arms and
wept. This was also my own idea, and new. That closed that part of the
poem; then I put her into the similitude of the firmament--not the whole
of it, but only part. That is to say, she was the moon, and all the
constellations were following her about, their hearts in flames for love
of her, but she would not halt, she would not listen, for 'twas thought
she loved another. 'Twas thought she loved a poor unworthy suppliant who
was upon the earth, facing danger, death, and possible mutilation in the
bloody field, waging relentless war against a heartless foe to save her
from an all too early grave, and her city from destruction. And when the
sad pursuing constellations came to know and realize the bitter sorrow
that was come upon them --note this idea--their hearts broke and their
tears gushed forth, filling the vault of heaven with a fiery splendor,
for those tears were falling stars. It was a rash idea, but beautiful;
beautiful and pathetic; wonderfully pathetic, the way I had it, with the
rhyme and all to help. At the end of each verse there was a two-line
refrain pitying the poor earthly lover separated so far, and perhaps
forever, from her he loved so well, and growing always paler and weaker
and thinner in his agony as he neared the cruel grave--the most touching
thing--even the boys themselves could hardly keep back their tears, the
way Noel said those lines. There were eight four-line stanzas in the
first end of the poem--the end about the rose, the horticultural end, as
you may say, if that is not too large a name for such a little poem--and
eight in the astronomical end--sixteen stanzas altogether, and I could
have made it a hundred and fifty if I had wanted to, I was so inspired
and so all swelled up with beautiful thoughts and fancies; but that would
have been too many to si