Sure in this realm of Sense and Time...

Sure in this realm of Sense and Time . . . . . . . . Passes an endless pantomime Of life and thought, whose tone and color A shadow is of a heavenly prime.

The rose unfolds from the unseen; It was not to the senses keen; 'Tis broken to the vision softly, A crown of crowns of the summer's green.

In hushed and breathless Beauty's name, From out the veiled deeps as flame It comes, a thing of sense, of spirit, And passeth out by the way it came.