Memorials of a Happy Time: The Vision

That healthy wisdom did I late unfold
Out of a precious type to me endeared.

I saw an altar to the Graces reared,
Of chaste proportions, by a green way -side.
Trees of all sorts stood round it, gray and old,
Blending their various leaves with solemn pride,
A venerable shade it seemed to me,
Where neither gloom nor garish light could be.
Daily from off the shrine to azure heaven
The quiet incense of soft thought was given;
And ever rose, as if on angel's wings,
The breezelike scent of high imaginings,
Fragrant of glory I had never dreamed,
So modest and so low that little altar seemed.