Amid the blue smoke of gem-glassed chapels
You shall find Me, the white five-wounded Flower,
The Rose of Sarras. Yea, the moths have eaten,
And fretted the gold cloths of the duke of York,
And lost is the scarlet cloak of the cardinal Beaufort;
Tapers are quencht and rods of silver broken,
Where once king Richard dined beneath the leopards:
But think you that any beautifulness is wasted,
Wherewith Mine angels have blessed the blue-eyed English,
Twining into stone an obscure dream of Heaven,