More lovely this,
With the pale dying flowers that fall and hide
The pebbles of the path,
Than the profusion of the budding Spring.

More holy this,
With the dim gentleness of failing winds,
Than any hour blessed
By sacral brook and ritual-mouthing priest.

More fragrant this,
The sweet grass in a russet, sheltered place,
Than soothest incense borne
Aslant through dusky aisles in some rich shrine.

Less bitter this
Grape, whose blu globe you crush in plucking it.
Than witching honey-dew
Drunk by enchanters on Midsummer Eve.

More mellow these
Fugitive colors of an Autumn day,
With deeper reds and golds
Than dyers use to tinge their finest stuffs.

More happy I,
In falling flowers, gentle winds, smooth grapes,
Than ever mortal was
In the bright plenty of budding spring.