Edith Nesbit

White Magic

   THIS is the room to which she came,
      And Spring itself came with her;
   She stirred the fire of life to flame,
      She called all music hither.
   Her glance upon the lean white walls
      Hung them with cloth of splendour,
   And still the rose she dropped recalls
      The graces that attend her.

   The same poor room, so dull and bare
      Before, in consecration,
   She breathed upon its common air
      The true transfiguration . . .?
   This room the same to which she came
      For one immortal minute?—
   How can it ever be the same
      Since she has once been in it!