第45章 POEM: WHITE MAGIC

This is the room to which she came, And Spring itself came with her;

She stirred the fire of life to flame, She called all music hither.

Her glance upon the lean white walls Hung them with cloth of splendour, And still the rose she dropped recalls The graces that attend her.

The same poor room, so dull and bare Before, in consecration, She breathed upon its common air The true transfiguration . . .?

This room the same to which she came For one immortal minute? -

How can it ever be the same Since she has once been in it!