THE FUGITIVE IDEAL

As some most pure and noble face, Seen in the thronged and hurrying street, Sheds o'er the world a sudden grace, A flying odour sweet, Then, passing, leaves the cheated sense Baulked with a phantom excellence;

So, on our soul the visions rise Of that fair life we never led: They flash a splendour past our eyes, We start, and they are fled: They pass, and leave us with blank gaze, Resigned to our ignoble days.