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.