The air is full of thin and blowing bells

Whose delicate, faint music breaks and swells

For every lightest wind, and dies unheard,—

Unless it be by some leaf-hidden bird,

Or some shy faun who listens in the reeds,

If haply there be tunes to suit his needs.

[45]

[45]

RENAISSANCE

This glittering sense of bright and bladed grass,

Of hedges topped with blossom, white like foam,

And moons that know a purple way to pass,—

This beauty that the mind has taken home—

Goes never wholly from us at the last,

But stays beyond each summer's slow decay,

Storing our thought with summers that are past:

Hedges and moons, white in their ancient way.

So, in some subtle instant, for their sake,

The winter world turns summer earth and sky:

Blossom and bird and musics in their wake ...

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