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.
The Fugitive Ideal
William Watson
(1)
Poem topics: life, never, noble, world, soul, sweet, rise, sense, face, street, pure, start, gaze, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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