BEAUTY is not a set and flawless rule; She spells the mist, and with a silver wing Hovers upon the shades of grey and brown No less than on a rich embroidery. She is a kind of rhythm, an accord Of dreaming notes, so vague and mystical That on a breath irrelevant they fade. She subtly whispers her imaginings, And hath a tender breath more delicate Than far-blown scent of gorse on distant hills. If we but catch the glimmer of her wing, Then witchery! We needs must follow her! If never on our path she comes along -- Then are we lost, for always we are blind. The phantasy of yearning and of hope, She comes to naught in Comprehension's grasp; No feather balanced on the Southern gale Is more impalpable than Beauty's face. We shall pursue her till our days are out; If e'er she vanish, Life is spent -- 'tis time To draw the curtain for a last goodnight! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THERE IS NO NATURAL RELIGION (A) by WILLIAM BLAKE TO YOUTH by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR LOST HAPPINESS by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE SEAMSTRESS by HENRI BARBUSSE THE MODERN TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS by JAMES HAY BEATTIE THE EMIGRANT LASSIE by JOHN STUART BLACKIE A WOMAN'S SONNETS: 7 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |