Twenty

A key no thief can steal, no time can rust; A faery door, adventurous and golden; A palace, perfect to our eyes-Ah must Our eyes be holden? Has the past died before this present sin? Has this most cruel age already stonèd To martyrdom that magic Day, within Those halls, enthronèd? No. Through the dancing of the young spring rain, Through the faint summer, and the autumn's burning, Our still immortal Day has heard again Our steps returning.