ROSE of the desert of my heart, br Moon of the night that is my soul, br Thou can'st not know how sweet thou art, br Nor what wild tides thy beams control. br br For all thy heart a garden is, br Thy soul is like a dawn of May. br And garden and dawn might both be his, br Who from them both must turn away. br br Oh, garden of the Spring's delight! br Oh, dewy dawn of perfect noon! br I will not pluck thy roses white br Or warm thy May-time into June.