Holding our bruted sense to fragrance bound.
Lily and clover and the white May-flowers,
And lucid lane afire with honeyed blooms,
And songs that time nor tears can ever fade,
Hold not the grace for which my heart has prayed.
But in this garden of gilt loveliness,
Lapped by the muffled pulse of hectic hours,
Something in me awoke to happiness;
And through the streets of plunging hoof and horn,
I walked with Beauty to the dim-starred morn.