Beauteous thou art, the spirit knows not how; 'Tis not the serpent-way thine iris slips, Nor confluence of the temples and the brow, Nor marge nor parting of the trembled lips: Beauteous thou art; but never with thy face Dwelleth thy beauty: all its riches are Freighting for thee in distant argosies, While thou art poor, save for a tranquil grace. Beauty forever with the god doth keep Backward, a few steps off, beside the shrine: It is thy dreaming when thou art asleep; Waking thou dost not wear it as a sign; Yet wheresoe'er thou goest it limns thee, sweet, As finest air a-quiver with the heat. |