IF any sense in mortal dust remains br When mine has been refin'd from flower to flower, br Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower br And delicate winy dews, and gain'd the gains br Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing br Through half a summer day, for love bestow, br Then in some warm old garden let me grow br To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing br As this.