A little room with scanty grace
Of drapery or ordered ease;
White dimity, and well-scrubbed boards,—
But there's a hum of summer bees,
The sun sends through the quiet place
The scent that honeysuckle hoards.
Outside, the little garden glows
With sun-warmed leaves and blossoms bright;
Beyond lie meadow, lane, and wood
Where trail the briony and wild rose,
And where grow blossoms of delight
In an inviolate solitude.
Through that green world there blows an air
That cools my forehead even here
In this sad city's riotous roar —
And from that room my ears can hear
Tears and the echo of a prayer,
And the world's voice is heard no more.