Toward the sun the drenched May-hedges lift
White rounded masses like still ocean-drift,
And days fill with heavy scent of that gift.
There is no escaping that full current of thick
Incens; one walks, suddenly one comes quick
Into a flood of odour there, aromatic,
Not English; for cleaner; sweeter, is the hot scent that
Is given from hedges, solitary flowers, not
In mass, but lonely odours that scarcely float.
But the incense bearers, soakers of sun's full
Powerfullness, give out floods unchecked, wonderful
Utterance almost, which makes no poet grateful,
Since his love is for single things rarely found,
Or hardly. Violets blooming in remote ground,
One colour, one fragrance, like one unacompanied sound -
Struck upon silence, nothing looked for, hung
As from gold wires: this May incense is swung,
Heavy of odour, the drenched meadows among.