the riddle of beauty.
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The grave its hopeless blot may be;
Largess to eyes that cannot see
'T is giving:
The joy, the pain, the mystery
Of living.
Largess to eyes that cannot see
'T is giving:
The joy, the pain, the mystery
Of living.
Say whence, O Beauty, floatest thou,
And whither?
But in a shade, an echo now
Swept hither.
Born with the sounds that hurry past?
Dead with the shapes that flee so fast?
O, never!
The soul of each fair thing must last
Forever.
And whither?
But in a shade, an echo now
Swept hither.
Born with the sounds that hurry past?
Dead with the shapes that flee so fast?
O, never!
The soul of each fair thing must last
Forever.
The glory of the rose remains
Unfaded,
Though now no wreath from blossoming lanes
Be braided.
A word unknown she drooping said;
A breath was in her, from the dead
To waft her:
And Beauty's riddle shall be read
Hereafter.
Unfaded,
Though now no wreath from blossoming lanes
Be braided.
A word unknown she drooping said;
A breath was in her, from the dead
To waft her:
And Beauty's riddle shall be read
Hereafter.
