Beauty
Cherishing Beauty, deep in thy heart of hearts
Folding her, Artist, call her not, dream her not
Thine. Are the sweet cold fires of moon-light
Lulled in a single lakelet's bosom?
Calm they glide with the river, the cataract
Hurls down light with its thunder, the fisherman
Wakes new glory on ocean, lifting
Silvered nets and a gleaming burden.
Folding her, Artist, call her not, dream her not
Thine. Are the sweet cold fires of moon-light
Lulled in a single lakelet's bosom?
Calm they glide with the river, the cataract
Hurls down light with its thunder, the fisherman
Wakes new glory on ocean, lifting
Silvered nets and a gleaming burden.
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