Like a wide laughter sweet and opportune,
Wet from the fount, three hundred doves of Paul’s
Shook their warm wings, drizzling the golden noon,
And in their rain-cloud vanished up the walls.
“God keeps,” I said, “our little flock of years.”
In the Reading-Room of the British Museum
PRAISED be the moon of books! that doth above
A world of men, the fallen Past behold,