The Immortal

Beauty is still immortal in our eyes; When sways no more of spirit-haunted reed, When the wild grape shall build No more her canopies, When blows no more the moon-gray thistle seed, When the last bell has lulled the white flocks home, When the last eve has stilled The wandering wing and touched the dying foam, When the last moon burns low, and, spark by spark, The little worlds die out along the dark,—

Beauty that rosed the moth-wing, touched the land With clover-horns and delicate faint flowers, Beauty that bade the showers Beat on the violet's face, Shall hold the eternal heavens within their place, And hear new stars come singing from God's hand.