The Undiscovered Flower

There is a flower just outside the window
That draws the sunlight to it, with sunlight is filled up.
It shimmers red as the dawn of magma's fire,
And the sunlight overflows it as water will a cup.

I do not know what kind of flower it may be,
This rose that I call a rose, though roses in a flood
Could not seem as sweet as this flower does to me.
It is open, almost round, and redder than heartsblood.

It is open, almost round, and the morning all around it
Is blue and green and gold, all the colors mornings are,
Or at least mornings in the springtime when the winds
Are warmer every minute; and the flower like a star

Holds the place of night in the middle of springtime day,
Holds like a reminder of what beauty there is in dreams.
I like to think that no one can see it when I go away,
That for no one else that flower red in golden sunlight gleams.

I am not sure why that jealous feeling overtakes me,
Why I am so sure that in a way, that flower is mine alone.
I know that other people have eyes with which to gaze,
And that to others the flower must sound the same and pure red tone.

And yet somehow I know that it is not the same,
That to the flower, as to my heart, I owe a kind of duty.
No one has ever seen it--not even those who know the flower's name-
In the way that I do, as an expression of pure beauty.