In The Meadows At Mantua

  But to have lain upon the grass

  One perfect day, one perfect hour,

  Beholding all things mortal pass

  Into the quiet of green grass;

  But to have lain and loved the sun,

  Under the shadow of the trees,

  To have been found in unison,

  Once only, with the blessed sun;

  Ah! in these flaring London nights,

  Where midnight withers into morn,

  How quiet a rebuke it writes

  Across the sky of London nights!

  Upon the grass at Mantua

  These London nights were all forgot.

  They wake for me again: but ah,

  The meadow-grass at Mantua!