Still will I harvest beauty where it grows:
  In coloured fungus and the spotted fog
  Surprised on foods forgotten; in ditch and bog
  Filmed brilliant with irregular rainbows
 Of rust and oil, where half a city throws
  Its empty tins; and in some spongy log
  Whence headlong leaps the oozy emerald frog...
  And a black pupil in the green scum shows.
 Her the inhabiter of divers places
  Surmising at all doors, I push them all.
  Oh, you that fearful of a creaking hinge
  Turn back forevermore with craven faces,
 I tell you Beauty bears an ultra fringe
  Unguessed of you upon her gossamer shawl!