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Time takes the ugliness and horror out of death and turns it into beauty.
Time takes the ugliness and horror out of death and turns it into beauty.
On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.
Up read more
On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.
Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.
From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.
Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night,
the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.
Then dearest child mournest thou only for jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is, (With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white is stays for ever,
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The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white is stays for ever,
Their red it never dies;
But Phyllida, my Phillida!
Her colour comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,--
It wavers to a rose.
Truth exists for the wise, beauty for the feeling heart.
Truth exists for the wise, beauty for the feeling heart.
The beauty seems right
By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong
Because of weakness.
The beauty seems right
By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong
Because of weakness.
... it's a sort of bloom on a woman. If you have it you don't need to have anything else; read more
... it's a sort of bloom on a woman. If you have it you don't need to have anything else; and if you don't have it, it doesn't much matter what else you have.
I must not say that she was true,
Yet let me say that she was fair;
And read more
I must not say that she was true,
Yet let me say that she was fair;
And they, that lovely face who view,
They should not ask if truth be there.
We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that read more
We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.
