BEAUTY by THOMAS STURGE MOORE

WITH naught the world contains or small or great
Can we content desire! "Here is no home!"
Cries Hope "No realm" cries kingly Love "No dome!"
Sighs Faith "to tent my altars alternate
My choruses beneath." They hardly wait,
Though hollow wayside trees hold honeycomb,
Though o'er the hedge-top honeysuckle roam,
But, pilgrims, they push on with "It grows late."
Knowledge they scorn for slowness, and decry
Beauty made happy with a flower's growth,
Beauty whose fault is being sweetly shy,
That, blue-eyed, wonders both at haste and sloth,
That, water-born, was brought up by the light...
And yet, O Beauty, touch us with thy might!

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