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He, observing the various dowers around them:

Violets and anemones The surrendered Hours Pour, as handsels, round the knees Of the Spring, who to the breeze Flings her myriad flowers.

Like to coins, the sumptuous day Strews with blossoms golden Every furlong of his way,-- Like a Sultan gone to pray At a Kaaba olden.

Warlock Night, with spark on spark, Clad in dim attire, Dots with stars the haloed dark,-- As a priest around the Ark Lights his lamps of fire.

These are but the cosmic strings Of the harp of Beauty, Of that instrument which sings, In our souls, of love, that brings Peace and faith and duty.