In The Meadows At Mantua

But to have lain upon the grass  One perfect day, one perfect hour,  Beholding all things mortal pass  Into the quiet of green grass;  But to have lain and loved the sun,  Under the shadow of the trees,  To have been found in unison,  Once only, with the blessed sun;  Ah! in these flaring London nights,  Where midnight withers into morn,  How quiet a rebuke it writes  Across the sky of London nights!  Upon the grass at Mantua  These London nights were all forgot.  They wake for me again: but ah,  The meadow-grass at Mantua!