I ride the night-yard's rose bush like a saddle, Burning to be nearer what shines afar, And visit all the dreaming stars for marvel, My rose and I still waking where we are. All below is lost, I believe in what's above. Unburied from sleep, I and my heart arose-- As full of feeling as empty of self, they say. But knowing myself as I know my yard and rose, I say, "Losing finds all again; there is a way." Twenty years about both house and bush I've spent; Twenty years dreaming to the rose-soft summit Where the sun arises a rose and sets a rose. Having gone round in love, I return to love; I wake to see where my rose-dreaming goes. My compass rose is cunning, her roots are deep. I dream the dream I need when I dream of sleep. The self is buried, and its roots are mossed. Roots are what come of being lost.