the orange-peel in the gutter.
49
And guard the door from him and you:
And underfoot?—no flowers, no grass,
T'arrest the steel before you pass,
To send up whispers low and sweet,
To smile, to beckon, and to greet;
No gurgling brook, no silent pool,
In whose pure waters, still and cool,
The flying bird, the flitting cloud,
The sunbeam peering in and out,
The star that slides through limpid air,
Are glassed in beauty wondrous fair.
None—none of these, but miry clay,
To cling tenaciously all day,
With heavy clutch to your poor heel,
And in the gutter yon, the peel
Of some sweet golden orange fruit,
Though smothered now with dirt and soot
Still darting forth through dull decay,
The splendour of a by-gone day,
The ling'ring of a dying ray.
And underfoot?—no flowers, no grass,
T'arrest the steel before you pass,
To send up whispers low and sweet,
To smile, to beckon, and to greet;
No gurgling brook, no silent pool,
In whose pure waters, still and cool,
The flying bird, the flitting cloud,
The sunbeam peering in and out,
The star that slides through limpid air,
Are glassed in beauty wondrous fair.
None—none of these, but miry clay,
To cling tenaciously all day,
With heavy clutch to your poor heel,
And in the gutter yon, the peel
Of some sweet golden orange fruit,
Though smothered now with dirt and soot
Still darting forth through dull decay,
The splendour of a by-gone day,
The ling'ring of a dying ray.
