 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
218
ATTRIBUTES
They praise the rose for blushing red
And nestling soft and smelling rare,
The mountain, that its haggard head
Mounts up through breezy miles of air.
And nestling soft and smelling rare,
The mountain, that its haggard head
Mounts up through breezy miles of air.
The painter, who, whate'er he scanned
In finest lineaments could trace,—
They gaze with wonder on his hand
Before they look within his face.
In finest lineaments could trace,—
They gaze with wonder on his hand
Before they look within his face.
The poet,—he who swiftly caught,
Before the sudden glory died,
In golden words a fleeting thought;—
They praise, but thrust him from their side.
Before the sudden glory died,
In golden words a fleeting thought;—
They praise, but thrust him from their side.
O vile desire of praise unproved!
O frailest, most ungenerous fall!
Let me, for one short hour, be loved
For mine own self, or not at all.
O frailest, most ungenerous fall!
Let me, for one short hour, be loved
For mine own self, or not at all.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |