Elsewhere

Beauteous thou art, the spirit knows not how;
'Tis not the serpent-way thine iris slips,
Nor confluence of the temples and the brow,
Nor marge nor parting of the trembled lips:

Beauteous thou art; but never with thy face
Dwelleth thy beauty: all its riches are
Freighting for thee in distant argosies,
While thou art poor, save for a tranquil grace.

Beauty forever with the god doth keep
Backward, a few steps off, beside the shrine:
It is thy dreaming when thou art asleep;

Waking thou dost not wear it as a sign;
Yet wheresoe'er thou goest it limns thee, sweet,
As finest air a-quiver with the heat.
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