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To catch the echo of Her flying feet,
To mark the flutter of Her waving veil,
Still seeking Beauty as a blind man light,
A babe the breast, seaman the pilot star.
If but Her shadow fall across his book
His verse is ageless attar, in a vase
Close-seal'd against the tyranny of Time.
You take it from it's shelf, and lift the lid,
Scent of a long dead Summer breathes again
Subtle and sweet as this last June's, that pass'd
With all her thronging roses!
Hermes:
Carve or sing,
Model or paint, but ever in your work
Set what is best in Beauty's honour, grave
Your golden sentence with a golden pen,
For Style is the expression fair and feat
Of exquisite impression. So the die
The minter presses on the molten gold
