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There is a beauty, after all is said, Unreached forever. Not when music dies, And earth dissolves in rapture of deep sighs; Not by the dance, down glades of moon light fled; Nor poetry, echoing death-chants to the dead. Is it unveiled: and yet, so near it lies, The lonely wanderer feels its faunlike eyes, And almost has it by a turn of head A rainbow spirit, tokened with unrest, It brushes wings, indues its deity. For half a glimpsing-time; and then is flown, A vanishing of rose leaves through the West, A shining prevalence wasting on a blown. Blue distance of pale, impermanent sea.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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