Ii

If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathes And beckons through the World, far must thou seek!... She is no shadow wreathed with hemlock wreaths; No drowsy sorrow whose wan eyes are weak With melancholy vigils; and no shade Of tragic sin of the sweet sun afraid: No tearful anger torn of truthless love, Who stabs her sick heart to the dagger’s hilt For vengeance sweet; no miser mood, or maid, In owlet towers!--Nay! she sings above On morning meads ’mid flowers that never wilt.

If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware! Lest thou discover her, nor know ’tis she; And she enslave thee to thy heart’s despair, And fill thy soul with yearning, utterly, For that wild-rose which is her mouth, that brings Dew-odors of the dawn; for those twin springs Of light, her eyes; the bloom of her white brow, O’er which the foliage of her dark hair lies: The melody which is her heart, that sings The poetry of love, to which all bow, Both gods and men, the love that never dies.

Lost art thou then, lost as the first lone star Set in the splendor of the sunset’s wave; Lost in thy loneliness of searching far, Striving to clasp her, evermore her slave: Lost--gladly lost! a devotee to her Who, in the end, perhaps may let thee share A portion of her bliss, her heritage Of happiness in the same way and wise As woods and waters share it.--Then prepare Thy soul,--made perfect,--for its final wage, Her kiss, whose touch shall apotheosize.