Soft, subtle scent, which is to me more sweet
Than perfumes that come after, when the rose
In all the passion of her beauty blows;
Here, even in this busy London street,
Thou openest to my soul such sights as meet
The eye, when quite forgetful of past snows,
The earth beneath the sun's kiss throbs and glows.
And each thing feels the luxury of heat.
Thou art his lady's voice to one who waits
In summer twilights at her garden gates:
Her face not seen as yet; thou art the rare
First note of Nature's prelude, that brings soon
The spring, like a divine and varying tune,
Till summer music vibrates in the air.
