Sight and Song : Transparent Translations and a Manifesto for the Observer

The freshness of the light, its secrecy, Spices, or honey from sweet-smelling bower, The harmony of time, love’s trembling hour Struck on thee with a new felicity. Standing, a child, by a red hawthorn-tree, Its perishing, small petals’ flame had power To fill with masses of soft, ruddy flower A certain roadside in thy memory: And haply when the tragic clouds of night Were slowly wrapping round thee, in the cold Of which men always die, a sense renewed Of the things sweet to touch and breath and sight, That thou didst touch and breathe and see of old Stole on these with the warmth of gratitude.1