VI.

If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathes Consanguined with young Earth, go seek!— but seek No sighing Shadows with dead hemlock-wreaths, No sleepy Sorrows whose wan eyes are weak

With vanished vigils, Melancholy made, Forlorn, in lands of sin and saddening shade; No tearful Angers torn of truthless Love, Who stab their own hearts to dull daggers’ hilts

For vengeance sweet; no miser Moods that fade In owlet towers. Such it springs above, And buds on morning meads no flower that wilts. If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware!

Lest thou discover her, nor know‘ tis she; And she enslave thee evermore, and there Reward thee with but kingliest beggary: Make thine the robust red her cheek that stings;

The kiss-sweet odor, thine, her wild breath brings; Make thine the broad bloom of her crowned brow; The hearts of light that ardor her proud eyes; That melody,— which is herself,— that sings

The poem of her presence and the vow, That stars exalts and mortals deifies. Lone art thou then, lone as the lone first star Kindling pale beauty o'er the mournful wave;

Lost to all happiness save searching far Thro’ lands of Life where Death hath delved no grave: Lost,— even as I,— a devotee to her, Poor in world-blessedness her bliss to share,

But rich in passion.— For her hermitage Hope no Hydaspes’ splendor, for it lies Mossy by woody waters hidden, where She, priestess pure, wise o'er all Wisdom sage,

Shrines artists’ hearts for godliest sacrifice.