Mine herb of grace, that kindred art
To all who choose "the better part,"
Grant us the old world's childlike heart,
Now grown an antique rarity!
With mayflowers on our swords and shields
We'll learn to babble of green fields
Like Falstaff, whom good humour yields
A place still in its charity.
Visions will come at times; I note
One with a cool, white, delicate throat;