IV

The way of Spring with little steepled townsIs such a shy, transforming sorceryOf special lights and swift, incredible crowns,That grave men wonder how such things may be.No friendly spire, no daily-trodden wayBut somehow alters in the April air,Grown dearer still, on some enchanted day,For shining garments they have come to wear.The way the spring comes to our Town is suchThat something quickens in the hearts of men,Turning them lovers at its subtle touch,Till they must lift their heads again—again—As lovers do, with frank, adoring eyes,Where the long street of lifted steeples lies.

The way the spring comes to our Town is suchThat something quickens in the hearts of men,Turning them lovers at its subtle touch,Till they must lift their heads again—again—As lovers do, with frank, adoring eyes,Where the long street of lifted steeples lies.

I think those townsmen, sleeping on the hill,Are never careless how the Town may fare,But jealous of her quiet beauty still,Her ways and worth are things for which they care:For shuttered house, and gateways and the grass,And how the streets, tree-bordered all and cool,Are still a pleasant way for folks to pass:Men at their work and children home from school.I cannot doubt that they are pleased to seeTheir planted elms grown dearer year by year:Their living witness unto such as we ...And they are less regretful when they hearSome name we speak, some tale we tell again,Of days when they were warm and living men.

These morning streets, the lawns of windy grass,And spires that wear the sunlight like a crown,The square where busy, happy people pass:The living soul that lights the little Town,—These have been shining beauty for my mind,And joy, and friendship, and a tale to tell,And these have been a presence that is kind,A quiet music and a healing well.Men who were lovers in the olden time,Who praised the beauty of bright hair and brow,And left a little monument of rhyme,—Wrought not more tenderly than I would, now,To turn some changing syllables of praiseFor her whose quiet beauty fills my days.

Men who were lovers in the olden time,Who praised the beauty of bright hair and brow,And left a little monument of rhyme,—Wrought not more tenderly than I would, now,To turn some changing syllables of praiseFor her whose quiet beauty fills my days.

Here would I leave some subtle part of me,A moving presence through the friendly Town,Abiding still, and happy still to beWhere thoughtful men pass daily up and down;—An essence stirring on the ways they fare,Haunting the drifted sunlight where they go,Till one might mark a Something on the air,Most near and kind—though why, he would not know.Happy, if it may chance, where two shall meet,Pausing to pass the friendly, idle word,In the hushed twilight of the evening street,I might stand by, a secret, silent Third,—Most happy listener, if I hear them tellHow, with the Town—and them—it still is well.

Happy, if it may chance, where two shall meet,Pausing to pass the friendly, idle word,In the hushed twilight of the evening street,I might stand by, a secret, silent Third,—Most happy listener, if I hear them tellHow, with the Town—and them—it still is well.

All day the rain has filled the apple-trees,And stilled the orchard grasses of their mirth,Turning these acres green and silvered seasThat drowned the summer musics of the earth.Now that this clearer twilight takes the hill,This thin, belated radiance, moving by,Bird-calls return, and odours, rainy still,And colours glinting through the earth and sky.Here where I watch the robins from the lane,That pirouette and preen among the leaves,These swift, wet-winged arrivals in the rainHave spilled a wisdom from their dripping eaves,—And beauty still is more than daily bread,For fevered minds, and hearts discomforted.

Here where I watch the robins from the lane,That pirouette and preen among the leaves,These swift, wet-winged arrivals in the rainHave spilled a wisdom from their dripping eaves,—And beauty still is more than daily bread,For fevered minds, and hearts discomforted.

The Kings are passing deathward in the darkOf days that had been splendid where they went;Their crowns are captive and their courts are starkOf purples that are ruinous, now, and rent.For all that they have seen disastrous things:The shattered pomp, the split and shaken throne,They cannot quite forget the way of Kings:Gravely they pass, majestic and alone.With thunder on their brows, their faces setToward the eternal night of restless shapes,They walk in awful splendour, regal yet,Wearing their crimes like rich and kingly capes....Curse them or taunt, they will not hear or see;The Kings are passing deathward: let them be.

With thunder on their brows, their faces setToward the eternal night of restless shapes,They walk in awful splendour, regal yet,Wearing their crimes like rich and kingly capes....Curse them or taunt, they will not hear or see;The Kings are passing deathward: let them be.

Strange that this body in its lifted stateOf independent will and power and lust,Should still attest that kinship, dimmed of late,Its ancient, honoured brotherhood with dust;—So that when Spring is quickening in the clay,Stirring dumb particles the way she fares,This foolish flesh is no less moved than they,To sweet, unreasoned happiness, like theirs.Not seed and soil alone, but heart and mindAre somehow swayed, till sober, earnest men,In quick renewal with their dusty kind,Grow foolish-fond, like lads at play again....So April, stirring blindly through the earth,Can move us to a blind, unthinking mirth.

Not seed and soil alone, but heart and mindAre somehow swayed, till sober, earnest men,In quick renewal with their dusty kind,Grow foolish-fond, like lads at play again....So April, stirring blindly through the earth,Can move us to a blind, unthinking mirth.

Apple-tree, apple-tree, what is it worth:Beauty and passion and red-lipped mirth,Fashioned of fire and the blossoming earth,—Gone in a transient spring?Spending and spilling your wealth through the grass,Coiner of coins that must rust and pass,—Knowing the end is—alas, and alas!What may a poet sing?"Sing of the dust that is blossomy boughs,Dust that is more than your thought allows;Sing you for ever impossible vowsUnto the springs to be."Dust in the dust is for fire and birth,Beauty and passion and red-lipped mirth,Fashioned of dust for the blossoming earth,—Even of you and me."

Apple-tree, apple-tree, what is it worth:Beauty and passion and red-lipped mirth,Fashioned of fire and the blossoming earth,—Gone in a transient spring?

Spending and spilling your wealth through the grass,Coiner of coins that must rust and pass,—Knowing the end is—alas, and alas!What may a poet sing?

"Sing of the dust that is blossomy boughs,Dust that is more than your thought allows;Sing you for ever impossible vowsUnto the springs to be.

"Dust in the dust is for fire and birth,Beauty and passion and red-lipped mirth,Fashioned of dust for the blossoming earth,—Even of you and me."

The sea has worn her ships like precious stones,That marked her bosom's tremulous unrest;And for their loss no pendant moon atonesThat rides eternally upon her breast.For sunk armadas or a little boatShe still is wistful as a jewelled queen,Who bears the burning memory at her throat,Of barque and sloop and brilliant brigantine.The epic chanted to each sounding caveIs all of fleets gone down by lonely shores,—The shining spars, the sails, the light they gave,Now scattered darkly on her grievous floors;—And all the sea's long moan is like a sighFor ruined ships remembered where they lie.

The epic chanted to each sounding caveIs all of fleets gone down by lonely shores,—The shining spars, the sails, the light they gave,Now scattered darkly on her grievous floors;—And all the sea's long moan is like a sighFor ruined ships remembered where they lie.

Always it was the old songs moved us most,For always there were other voices near,A silver singing threading like a ghost,A thinner music than our ears could hear;So that we sang more softly than we might,As leaving room for some expected tone;Our singing was half listening in the night,For other singing drowned along our own,And always there was silence at the end,For something that beguiled us with the thoughtOf presences returning, friend to friend.Seeking again the fellowship they sought,Pleased that we sing old songs they still may know,Who sang with us, or listened, long ago.

And always there was silence at the end,For something that beguiled us with the thoughtOf presences returning, friend to friend.Seeking again the fellowship they sought,Pleased that we sing old songs they still may know,Who sang with us, or listened, long ago.

My faith is all a doubtful thing,Wove on a doubtful loom,—Until there comes, each showery Spring,A cherry-tree in bloom;And Christ who died upon a treeThat death had stricken bare,Comes beautifully back to me,In blossoms, everywhere.

My faith is all a doubtful thing,Wove on a doubtful loom,—Until there comes, each showery Spring,A cherry-tree in bloom;

And Christ who died upon a treeThat death had stricken bare,Comes beautifully back to me,In blossoms, everywhere.

Among the goodly folk whose name I bear,Men of the plough, the priesthood, and the mill,Whose whispered wisdom follows where I fare,With ghostly promptings that must haunt me still,—What place was there for you, whose different fameDelighted, once, the Don Juans of the town?The family annals have forgot your name,And time at last has hushed your gay renown.But often in the chamber of my mind,The righteous rise and leave, their counsels done,And there is counsel of another kind,—The room turns tavern, and there enters oneI pledge as kinsman in a reeling toast,Still unregenerate and delightful ghost.

But often in the chamber of my mind,The righteous rise and leave, their counsels done,And there is counsel of another kind,—The room turns tavern, and there enters oneI pledge as kinsman in a reeling toast,Still unregenerate and delightful ghost.

Here where the sunlight makes more strangely fairEach shining street, each steeple where it stands,Something like Spring is blowing down the air,Touching the Town with light, transforming hands.Half-shy and hesitant, a Something staysOne trembling instant where the sun is sweet,—A quickening presence on these winter ways,Haunting and swift—and gone on shining feet.Yet, there was hint of coming daffodils,And slender spears uprising on the lawn,And apple-blossoms on the April hills ...Only the timid prophetess was gone,Leaving a faith as gallant as the grass,How that these things would surely come to pass.

Yet, there was hint of coming daffodils,And slender spears uprising on the lawn,And apple-blossoms on the April hills ...Only the timid prophetess was gone,Leaving a faith as gallant as the grass,How that these things would surely come to pass.

Who knows what trouble trembled in that throat,What sweet distraction for the summer moon,That lured you out, a frail, careering boat,Across the midnight's purple, deep lagoon!Some fire of madness lit that tiny brain,Some soft propulsion clouded through your breast,And lifted you, a white and moving stainAgainst the dark of that disastrous quest.The sadness of all brief and lovely things,The fine and futile passions that we bear,Haunt the bright wreck of your too fragile wings,And win a pity for you, ended there,—Like us, hurled backward to the final shade,From mad adventures for a moon or maid.

The sadness of all brief and lovely things,The fine and futile passions that we bear,Haunt the bright wreck of your too fragile wings,And win a pity for you, ended there,—Like us, hurled backward to the final shade,From mad adventures for a moon or maid.

For Something glimpsed upon the topmost hill,For Something glinting down a country lane,Where apple-blossoms shimmer white and spillA ghostly shower close along the rain,—For Something guessed beyond the hedge or tree,Hinted and hid behind the evening star,I am made captive and am never freeOf Something that is neither near nor far.A waking through the windy shapes of grass,A trembling as of light along a bough,—These are for footprints and a way to pass,To follow after and to make a vow,—To seek past glamours that are hourly spent,And find but fainting lights down ways she went.

A waking through the windy shapes of grass,A trembling as of light along a bough,—These are for footprints and a way to pass,To follow after and to make a vow,—To seek past glamours that are hourly spent,And find but fainting lights down ways she went.

You who have seen the foam upon bright wrecksOf stately ships that never come to port,Where sea-things crawl upon those sunken decks,And fishes through those cabins take their sport,——There where at last the gilded, gay saloonTurns watery cavern for the spawn of seas,And spars, once splendid, rot beneath the moonThat once was glad to sail with such as these,—Let never word of pity pass your lips:For these were proud in ways you cannot know,And pride is slow to die in ruined shipsWho can but dream that some day they will go,Their wounds all healed, their clean strength whole again,Monarch of seas, marvel of moons and men.

Let never word of pity pass your lips:For these were proud in ways you cannot know,And pride is slow to die in ruined shipsWho can but dream that some day they will go,Their wounds all healed, their clean strength whole again,Monarch of seas, marvel of moons and men.

I would be dumb before the evening star,And no light word should stir upon my lipsFor autumn dusks where dying embers are,For evening seas and slow, returning ships.I would be hushed before the face I love,Rising in star-like quiet close to mine,Lest all the beauty thought is dreaming ofBe rudely shaken and be spilled like wine.For present loveliness there is no speech,A word may wrong a flower or a face,And stars that swim beyond our stuttering reachAre safer in some golden, silent place....Only when these are broken, or pass by,Wonder and worship speak ... or sing ... or cry.

For present loveliness there is no speech,A word may wrong a flower or a face,And stars that swim beyond our stuttering reachAre safer in some golden, silent place....Only when these are broken, or pass by,Wonder and worship speak ... or sing ... or cry.

As some monastic scrivener in his cell,Sensing a chill along the stony crypt,Might labour yet more gorgeously to spellThe final, splendid entries of his script,—So with bright rubrics has the Autumn writA coloured chronicle of things that pass,Thumbing a yellow parchment that is litWith brief, illumined letters through the grass.With what a prodigality of stains,Is fashioned this last entry and design,By one aware of cold, approaching rains,—Who senses, through each iridescent line,A presence at the shoulder—chills and blights,Winds that will snuff his letters out like lights.

With what a prodigality of stains,Is fashioned this last entry and design,By one aware of cold, approaching rains,—Who senses, through each iridescent line,A presence at the shoulder—chills and blights,Winds that will snuff his letters out like lights.

I have imagined ... but I have not knownWhat swift, recaptured seasons, lost of late,What long-regretted Aprils yet may waitFor each of these beyond his crypted stone.Some Springtime that was all too quickly blown,Some Summer that was roses in his heart,May wake again in every sweetest part,And show themselves familiarly his own.It well may be there are eternal daysFor every frailest thing, beyond this door,Where roses are not ruined any more,And April with her jonquils stays and stays,Outlingering walls of granite where they blow ...I have imagined ... but I do not know.

It well may be there are eternal daysFor every frailest thing, beyond this door,Where roses are not ruined any more,And April with her jonquils stays and stays,Outlingering walls of granite where they blow ...I have imagined ... but I do not know.

This old slow music will have never doneWith dancers who were graceful long ago;A sigh returns them, one by ghostly one,To tunes and measures that they knew—and know.These lifted faces, floating on a stream,Are one with other faces that were fair,—That once were light, and summertime and dream,And drifted laughter over hall and stair.The viols end, and two by two they passOut of this blaze into the leafy dark,Too ghostly and too dim across the grass,Too soon obscured and blotted, all,—till Hark!This old, slow music that is like a sighFor silver feet gone, ah, how lightly by.

The viols end, and two by two they passOut of this blaze into the leafy dark,Too ghostly and too dim across the grass,Too soon obscured and blotted, all,—till Hark!This old, slow music that is like a sighFor silver feet gone, ah, how lightly by.

The old gods wait where secret beauty stirs,By green, untempled altars of the Spring,If haply, still, there be some worshippersWhose hearts are moved with long remembering.The cloven feet of Pan are on the hill,His reedy musics sadder than all rains,Since none will seek—pipe ever as he will—Those unanointed and neglected fanes.Beauty and joy—the bread and wine and all—We have foresworn; our noisy hearts forget;We stray and on strange altars cry and call ...Ah, patient gods, be patient with us yet,And Pan, pipe on, pipe on, till we shall rise,And follow, and be happy, and be wise.

Beauty and joy—the bread and wine and all—We have foresworn; our noisy hearts forget;We stray and on strange altars cry and call ...Ah, patient gods, be patient with us yet,And Pan, pipe on, pipe on, till we shall rise,And follow, and be happy, and be wise.

There is no rest for them, even in Death:As life had harried them from lair to lair,Still with unquiet eyes and furtive breath,They haunt the secret by-ways of the air.They know Earth's outer regions like a street,And on pale ships that make no port of call,They pass in silence when they chance to meet,Saying no names, telling no tales at all.Yet, on November nights of wind and storm,Shivered and driven from their ghostly shores,They peer in lighted windows glowing warm,And thrill again at dear, remembered doors—But they are wary listeners in the night:Speak but a name, and they are off in flight.

Yet, on November nights of wind and storm,Shivered and driven from their ghostly shores,They peer in lighted windows glowing warm,And thrill again at dear, remembered doors—But they are wary listeners in the night:Speak but a name, and they are off in flight.

The sounding battles leave him nodding still:The din of javelins at the distant wallIs far too faint to wake that weary willThat all but sleeps for cities where they fall.He cares not if this Helen's face were fair,Nor if the thousand ships shall go or stay;In vain the rumbling chariots throng the airWith sounds the centuries shall not hush away.Beyond the window where the Spring is new,Are marbles in a square, and tops again,And floating voices tell him what they do,Luring his thought from these long-warring men,——And though the camp be visited with gods,He dreams of marbles and of tops, and nods.

Beyond the window where the Spring is new,Are marbles in a square, and tops again,And floating voices tell him what they do,Luring his thought from these long-warring men,——And though the camp be visited with gods,He dreams of marbles and of tops, and nods.

Earth has been splendid in her changing moods,Whose scattered glories mark the moment spent;Reliques of mirth or thoughtful solitudesBetoken what a Christ or Dante meant.What smiling dream, what happy, happy hourYielded an Athens for the bride of Time!What darker reverie wrought the Roman flowerWhose crimson petals stained the grass with crime!Mood after mood, its subtle secret hid,Plies in the earth and has its moody way,Patient or swift—to build a pyramid,Or strike a Phidias from the quickened clay ...A reverie, that is cities on a hill,Or laughter trembling in a daffodil.

Mood after mood, its subtle secret hid,Plies in the earth and has its moody way,Patient or swift—to build a pyramid,Or strike a Phidias from the quickened clay ...A reverie, that is cities on a hill,Or laughter trembling in a daffodil.

The air is full of thin and blowing bellsWhose delicate, faint music breaks and swellsFor every lightest wind, and dies unheard,—Unless it be by some leaf-hidden bird,Or some shy faun who listens in the reeds,If haply there be tunes to suit his needs.

The air is full of thin and blowing bellsWhose delicate, faint music breaks and swells

For every lightest wind, and dies unheard,—Unless it be by some leaf-hidden bird,

Or some shy faun who listens in the reeds,If haply there be tunes to suit his needs.

This glittering sense of bright and bladed grass,Of hedges topped with blossom, white like foam,And moons that know a purple way to pass,—This beauty that the mind has taken home—Goes never wholly from us at the last,But stays beyond each summer's slow decay,Storing our thought with summers that are past:Hedges and moons, white in their ancient way.So, in some subtle instant, for their sake,The winter world turns summer earth and sky:Blossom and bird and musics in their wake ...And one bright moment, ere it hurries by,Throngs all the mind with colour, light and mirth,Like summertimes returning through the earth.

So, in some subtle instant, for their sake,The winter world turns summer earth and sky:Blossom and bird and musics in their wake ...And one bright moment, ere it hurries by,Throngs all the mind with colour, light and mirth,Like summertimes returning through the earth.

Whenever he would talk to us of ships,Old schooners lost, or tall ships under weigh,The god of speech was neighbour to his lips,A lover's grace on words he loved to say.He called them by their names, and you could seeSpars in the sun, keels, and their curling foam;And all his mind was like a morning quayOf ships gone out, and ships come gladly home.He filled the bay with sails we had not seen:TheMarguerita L., "a maid for shape,"The slenderKay, the worthyIsland Queen,—That was his own, he lost her off the Cape,"She was a ship"—and then he looked away,And talked to us no more of ships that day.

He filled the bay with sails we had not seen:TheMarguerita L., "a maid for shape,"The slenderKay, the worthyIsland Queen,—That was his own, he lost her off the Cape,"She was a ship"—and then he looked away,And talked to us no more of ships that day.

This singing Summertime has never doneWith afternoons all gold and dust and fire,And windy trees blown silver in the sun,The lights of earth, her musics and desire;—But day by day, and hour by lighted hour,Something beyond the summer earth and sky,Burns through this passion of a world in flower,—Some ghostly sense of lovers thronging by.And I have thought, upon this windy hill,Where bends and sways the long, dream-troubled grass,That I may know the heart-beats, tender still,Of gone, forgotten lovers where they pass,—Their love, too long for one brief life to hold,Beating and burning through this dust and gold.

And I have thought, upon this windy hill,Where bends and sways the long, dream-troubled grass,That I may know the heart-beats, tender still,Of gone, forgotten lovers where they pass,—Their love, too long for one brief life to hold,Beating and burning through this dust and gold.

No hint was told to these untutored seed:Along the mould wherein their roots are curled,No whisper runs of station, caste or creed,To guide their tendrils through a jealous world.From palace wall or cottage door, these blooms,In careless disarray of white and red,Will peer through open windows into roomsWhere princes sit, or women kneading bread.Along these tender twilights where they lean,They send no whispered gossip down at all,Of cradle songs, or counsels of a queen,To roots indifferent if that upper wallBe loud with battles and the clash of Kings,Or quiet, where a mother sits and sings.

Along these tender twilights where they lean,They send no whispered gossip down at all,Of cradle songs, or counsels of a queen,To roots indifferent if that upper wallBe loud with battles and the clash of Kings,Or quiet, where a mother sits and sings.

I am aware of crowds behind the night,Of eager faces just beyond our eyes,Immured in silences and lost to light,Piteous and pleading with a hurt surpriseThat we who live will never turn a headTo speak them any answer, or to harkThe pregnant whispered wisdom of the Dead,The futile finger pointed in the Dark.

When we had gone from out the blazing room,Into the cool and leafy dark, at last,And found a sweetness in the summer gloom,A holy quiet on the ways we passed,—We turned, with only half-regretful glanceAt silhouettes beyond that square of light,—Content to leave the laughter and the dance,For green, cool chambers of the summer night.I think that we shall not be otherwise,When we have quit all rooms where once we went,—But gazing back with grave, untroubled eyes,Shall find ourselves so quietly content,We shall not wish to alter that estate,Nor seek again the dance we left of late.

I think that we shall not be otherwise,When we have quit all rooms where once we went,—But gazing back with grave, untroubled eyes,Shall find ourselves so quietly content,We shall not wish to alter that estate,Nor seek again the dance we left of late.

Out of what ancient summer of soft airsWas spun this song that stills each listening leaf—This silver, moon-bright minstreling that faresThrough all old time, still laden with a grief?Some hidden bird, by turrets and black bars,Where one had languished for her face was fair,Heard thus some troubadour beneath the stars,And learned this song of vanished hands and hair.Who knows what golden story first gave birthTo this old music that is heavy-sweetWith gardens long forgotten of the earth,With passion that was silver wings and feet,To cross the silent centuries and be heard,Calling again in this dream-troubled bird!

Who knows what golden story first gave birthTo this old music that is heavy-sweetWith gardens long forgotten of the earth,With passion that was silver wings and feet,To cross the silent centuries and be heard,Calling again in this dream-troubled bird!

The thousand muffled noises of the dawn:The drowsy stir of birds, surprised from sleep,The faint applause of leaves above the lawn,The bleat, far off, of closely-cabined sheep,—Are like dim perfumes blowing down the stairs,All sweetly prescient of the coming day,—And less like sounds, than little tender airsGone softly shod and happily astray.The later sleepers, where the garden lies,Such heavy-lidded ladies as the rose,Hear the soft tumult with a dim surprise,There, where an early wind as roundsman goes,To rouse each languid, over-sleepy head,And shame them that they lie so long abed.

The later sleepers, where the garden lies,Such heavy-lidded ladies as the rose,Hear the soft tumult with a dim surprise,There, where an early wind as roundsman goes,To rouse each languid, over-sleepy head,And shame them that they lie so long abed.

I think the ghost of LeerieCame by with ghostly tread,And little lighted tapers,When we had gone to bed,—Past gravel-walk and garden,As he was wont to go,And lit these yellow lanterns,Burning where thy blow.

It moves my heart but little to supposeThat planted men, like planted seed, shall rise,That faulty dust re-blossoms as the rose,In new perfections for more perfect skies;Nor should I greatly care if one who knewShould tell that out beyond the Grievous Gate,The sleepy country that we travel to,Has never any waking, soon or late.But what if I should hear a prophet say:Next year will bring no robins round the door,And April will not have her ancient way,The hedge will bear no blossoms any more,The earth will not be green for living men,—For Spring will not pass by this way again!...

But what if I should hear a prophet say:Next year will bring no robins round the door,And April will not have her ancient way,The hedge will bear no blossoms any more,The earth will not be green for living men,—For Spring will not pass by this way again!...

For all the crowd that packed the house to-night,Marked you the vacant seat none came to claim,...The fourth row from the front, and to the right?...Vacant, I call it now.... But I could nameA thing that happened when the lights were off,Of one who walked in buckles down the aisle,Wearing a great hat that he scorned to doff,And richly kerchiefed, wrist and neck in style.Once in the play—I swear it—once I heard,Along the tumult of our loud applause,A sly and ghostly chuckle at a wordThat Falstaff mouthed with those outrageous jaws ...I think he liked the play ... and stayed, no doubt,Long after us, and lingered going out.

Once in the play—I swear it—once I heard,Along the tumult of our loud applause,A sly and ghostly chuckle at a wordThat Falstaff mouthed with those outrageous jaws ...I think he liked the play ... and stayed, no doubt,Long after us, and lingered going out.

Who walks with Beauty has no need of fear:The sun and moon and stars keep pace with him;Invisible hands restore the ruined year,And time itself grows beautifully dim.One hill will keep the footprints of the moonThat came and went a hushed and secret hour;One star at dusk will yield the lasting boon:Remembered beauty's white, immortal flower.Who takes of Beauty wine and daily bread,Will know no lack when bitter years are lean;The brimming cup is by, the feast is spread;The sun and moon and stars his eyes have seen,Are for his hunger and the thirst he slakes:The wine of Beauty and the bread he breaks.

Who takes of Beauty wine and daily bread,Will know no lack when bitter years are lean;The brimming cup is by, the feast is spread;The sun and moon and stars his eyes have seen,Are for his hunger and the thirst he slakes:The wine of Beauty and the bread he breaks.

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