  Wherewith is Beauty fashioned? Canst thou deem Her evanescent roses bourgeon save Within the sunlight tender on her grave? Awake no winds but bear her dust, a gleam In morning’s prophecy or sunset’s dream; And every cry that ever Sirens gave From islands mournful with the quiring wave Was echo of a music once supreme. All Æons, conquests, excellencies, stars, All pain and peril of seraphic wars, Were met to shape thy soul’s divinity. Pause, for the breath of gods is on thy face! The ghost of dawns forgotten and to be Abides a moment in the twilight’s grace. |
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