The Flask

  There are some powerful odours that can pass
  Out of the stoppered flagon; even glass
  To them is porous. Oft when some old box
  Brought from the East is opened and the locks
  And hinges creak and cry; or in a press
  In some deserted house, where the sharp stress
  Of odours old and dusty fills the brain;
  An ancient flask is brought to light again,
  And forth the ghosts of long-dead odours creep.
  There, softly trembling in the shadows, sleep
  A thousand thoughts, funereal chrysalides,
  Phantoms of old the folding darkness hides,
  Who make faint flutterings as their wings unfold,
  Rose-washed and azure-tinted, shot with gold.