 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
BEAUTY.
Through pools of feldspar heav'n, above which liesOne cloud's flamingo wing, the Inca, Day,
Wades downward to his death; along his way
Run little ripples of the sunset skies;
And every stepping-stone of mist he tries
With Midas foot, transforms its stony gray
To burning gold; until, with one red ray,
He sinks, and o'er him, stars, like bubbles, rise.
So should all beauty pass; in rich accord
With its surroundings; touching earth till all
Conform to it as an accessory;
Transferring to its features the regard
Of its own dreams, through which the spiritual
At last attains its immortality.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |