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.