—Shakespeare’s Sonnet CVII.
I
What boon is this, this fresh and crystal thing,
Perfect as snow, dropped from the deep of the sky—
This healing, shed as from the soft swift wing
Of some great mystical bird low-sweeping by?
This music suddenly thrilling through the mind
Angelic unimagined ecstasy,
As when warm fingers of the Spring unbind
Young brooks that laugh and leap, at last being free?