He waved his fingers. "The sentiments of one of the poems were
commendable, fanciful. I remember it"--he put a finger to his
lip--"let me see." He stepped towards the packet, but I made a sign
of interference--how grateful was I of this afterwards!--and he drew
back courteously. "Ah well," he said, "I have a fair memory; I can,
I think, recall the morsel. It impressed me. I could not think the
author an Englishman. It runs thus," and with admirable grace he
recited the words:
"O flower of all the world, O flower of all!
The garden where thou dwellest is so fair,
Thou art so goodly and so queenly tall,
Thy sweetness scatters sweetness everywhere,
O flower of all!
"O flower of all the years, O flower of all!
A day beside thee is a day of days;
Thy voice is softer than the throstle's call,
There is not song enough to sing thy praise,
O flower of all!
"O flower of all the years, O flower of all!
I seek thee in thy garden, and I dare
To love thee; and though my deserts be small,
Thou art the only flower I would wear,
O flower of all!"
"Now that," he said, "is the romantic, almost the Arcadian
spirit.
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