A Beauty subtler, more evasive yet,
A vision fainter, fairer, farther still
Than ever your eye may mark, your hand translate!
That fleeting vision seeking, you shall know
The soul of Sorrow in the guise of Joy,
The sob that breaks thro' all the lilt of lutes,
Madness of Mirth that turns to tears so soon,
And still the shadowy sighing in the song!
Not the green rapture of the riotous Spring
Shall sway your brooding fancy, not the noon,
But Autumn's tenderer, more regretful tone,
The strange sea-green of skys crepuscular,
The bitter even-scent of box and bay,
The glimmering whiteness of the garden gods,
Thro' earlier falling dusk of the yellowing year,
These most shall match your mood, when sunset brings
The violet sky holding one hopeless star,
The tragic dusk that deepens to dispair!
