THE form's divinity, the heart's best grace, Where are they? Have they their immortal throne Upon thy maiden's thought, and peerless face, Thou cold-eyed reader? Yet beneath this stone Dust lies, weeds grow: and this is the remain Of one best union of that deathless twain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE AMERICAN FIREMAN by CHRISTOPHER BANNISTER ON BEING ASKED IF ONE WAS A NUMBER, REPLY TO MR. HOUGHTON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THWARTED UTTERANCE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE BLUNDER by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE |