The ladies of St. Jamess! Theyre painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever Their red it never dies: But Phillida, my Phillida! Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily, It wavers to a rose.
Whence comes solace? Not from seeing, What is doing, suffering, being; Not from noting Lifes conditions, Not from heeding Times monitions; But in cleaving to the Dream And in gazing at the Gleam Whereby gray things golden seem.