The Fugutive Ideal

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 senses lorn—
Balked as with lustre of phantom Morn;

So, on our souls, the visions rise
Of that fair life we never led:
They flash a splendour past our eyes,
We start, and they are fled:
They vanish, and leave us with blank gaze,
Resigned to our ignoble days.
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