 | Songs of A Worker |  |
93
HER BEAUTY.
I knew that in her beauty was the healingOf sorrows, and the more than earthly cure
Of earth-begotten ills man may endure,
Gnawed on by cares, or blown by winds of feeling.
For in her beauty was the clear revealing
Of Truth; and with the sight a man grew pure,
And all his life and thinking steadfast, sure,
As one before a shrine of Godhead kneeling.
But then, alas! I saw that she was made
No whit less mortal, frail,—or she might miss
Death—than the summer substance of a flower;
That on her beauty Death had even laid
A touch, and in the distance called her his,
And Time might steal her beauty every hour.
| Songs of A Worker | |