  Walking these long, late twilights of the Spring, Where all the fret of life seems nothing worth, And grief, itself, a half-forgotten thing, Less keen than these cool odours of the earth,— I sometimes think we find the secret gate That gives on gardens of enchanted light, Restoring glories that we lost of late, To quiet wisdom and more certain sight. A holier mood will haunt our stubborn will, Till we shall see revealments through the grass, And stop, abashed, before a daffodil, A shining weed, a stone on ways we pass, Stand with bared head before the evening star, And know these holy things for what they are. |
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