But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through venturous glooms and winding mossy ways cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet. Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

The Complete Poems