ure in this realm of Sense and Time
Passes an endless pantomime
Of life and thought, whose tone and color
A shadow is of a heavenly prime.
The rose unfolds from the unseen;
It was not to the senses keen;
'Tis broken to the vision softly,
A crown of crowns of the summer's green.
In hushed and breathless Beauty's name,
From out the veiled deeps as flame
It comes, a thing of sense, of spirit,
And passeth out by the way it came.
ll day an ashen light serene
Has brooded o'er this longed-for scene,
Its tints and damask flush all hiding,
As if obscured by a dusky screen.
Here when a child I used to lie
For hours, and watch the clouds go by,
See the black shadows climb the mountain
Or safely ride o'er the billowy rye.
O Beauty, shy as sylvan run,
Demure as some sweet-hooded nun,
And wrapt about with grey of gloaming,
Unveil thy face to the sinking sun.