Not for the world that we know,
But the lovelier world that we dream of
Dost thou, Sweet Woodruff, grow;
Not of this world is the theme of
The scent diffused
From thy bright leaves bruised;
Not in this world hast thou part or lot,
Save to tell of the dream one, forgot, forgot.
Sweet Woodruff, thine is the scent
Of a world that was wise and lowly,
Singing with sane content,
Simple and clean and holy,
Merry and kind
As an April wind,
Happier far for the dawn's good gold
Than the chinking chaffer-stuff hard and cold.
Thine is the odour of praise
In the loved little country churches;
Thine are the ancient ways
Which the new Gold Age besmirches;
Cordials, wine
And posies are thine,
The adze-cut beams with thy bunches fraught,
And the kist-laid linen by maidens wrought.
Clean bodies, kind hearts, sweet souls,
Delight and delighted endeavour,
A spirit that chants and trolls,
A world that doth ne'er dissever
The body's hire
And the heart's desire;
Ah, bright leaves bruised and brown leaves dry,
Odours that bid this world go by.