"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. We have lost it, but it lingers like some rare scent in the
folds of lace. It is also but artifice, yet so is the lingering
perfume. When it hung in the flower it was lost after a day's life,
but when gathered and distilled into an essence it becomes, through
artifice, an abiding sweetness.
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