To Beauty

Beauty on your wings—flying the far blue,
Flower of man's heart whom no God made;
Star, leaf-breath, and gliding shadow,
Fly with me, too, awhile!

Bring me knowledge:
How the pansies are made, and the cuckoo's song!
And the little owls, grey in the evening, three on a gate;
The goldcups a-field, the flight of the swallow:
The eyes of the cow who has calved;
The wind passing from ash-tree to ash-tree!

For thee shall I never cease aching?
Do the gnats ache that dance in the sun?
Do the flowers ache, or the bees rifling their gold?
Is it I only who ache?
Beauty! Fulfil me! Cool the heart of my desire!
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.