Somewhere, sometime, I walked a field wherein

The daisies held high festival in white,

Thinking: Alas! he with a young delight

Among them once his golden web did spin;

He who made half-divine an olden inn,

The Tabard; sung of Ariadne bright,

And penned of Sarra’s king at fall of night,

“Where now I leave, there will I fresh begin.”

Then straightway heard I merry laughter rise

From one that wrote, thrown on a daisy-bed,

Who, seeing the two-fold wonder in mine eyes,

Spake, lifting up his fair and reverend head:

“Child! this is the earth-completing Paradise,

And thou, that strayest here, art centuries dead.”