I. Beauty

The beauty of the world, the loveliness Of woodland pools, which doves have coo’d to sleep, Dreaming the noontide through beneath the deep Of heaven; the radiant blue’s benign caress When April clouds are rifted; buds that bless Each little nook and bower, where the leaves keep Dew and light shadow, and quick lizards peep For sunshine,--these, and the ancient stars no less, And the sea’s mystery of dusk and bright Are but the curious characters that lie, Priestess of Beauty, in thy robe of light. Ah, where, divine One, is thy veiled retreat, That I may creep to it and clasp thy feet, And gaze in thy pure face though I should die?