The Riddle of Beauty

BROWN bird of spring, on pinion softAscending,A voice to reddening dawn aloftThus lending;Few heed thy song; why is it sweet?Why art thou beautiful as fleet,Light comer,Bewildered in the stir and heatOf summer?

White clouds, that over the blue skyAre pressing,The pilots of an argosyOf blessing;Ye float with all your sails unfurledAbove a dull, unconscious world;None caringWhence ye those fleeces, golden-curled,Are bearing.

Blue autumn flower, thy deep heart storesHeaven's azure;And thence from out thy chalice poursRare pleasure.The frost a plague-spot blackening casts;Thy fringe is torn when sleety blastsGrow stronger;Men love thee while thy beauty lasts;No longer.

Thou maid, around whose lip and eyeIntwining,The loveliest tints of earth and skyAre shining,—Thy sweet song dies; thy freshness mustFade like a flower's, by blight and dustO'ertaken;And all the roots of mortal trustAre shaken.

O, why should thus the beautifulO'erbrood us,Yet ever its harmonious ruleElude us?The grave its hopeless blot may be;Largess to eyes that cannot see'T is giving:The joy, the pain, the mysteryOf living.

Say whence, O Beauty, floatest thou,And whither?But in a shade, an echo nowSwept hither.Born with the sounds that hurry past?Dead with the shapes that flee so fast?O, never!The soul of each fair thing must lastForever.

The glory of the rose remainsUnfaded,Though now no wreath from blossoming lanesBe braided.A word unknown she drooping said;A breath was in her, from the deadTo waft her:And Beauty's riddle shall be readHereafter.