We crave our share of beauty, then we strive To conjure it from elemental things. The sculptor forms a god almost alive From sodden clay made wet by miry springs. The painter fixes beauty that will last; His pigments hold forgotten summer's glow; His June remains when forty Junes have passed; No torrid sun can melt his winter snow. While skilful fingers draw melodious notes From instruments of ivories or strings, The singers' harps are hidden in their throats. There's living grace in curves the dancer flings. The poet, airman, flying high in air, With eye that's keen reaps beauty everywhere. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE SHADOWS: MY EPITAPH by DAVID GRAY (1838-1861) TO LUCASTA, [ON] GOING TO THE WARS by RICHARD LOVELACE ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN by BRYAN WALLER PROCTER THE ATLANTIDES by HENRY DAVID THOREAU THE STORM by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE STANZAS, COMPOSED WHILE WALKING ON WARREN HILL, EARLY SUMMER'S MORNING by BERNARD BARTON |