Perfect, as 'twere through very lack of art, So seeming simple both in poise and line, Familiar to the sight as wild flower's heart, Yet rare as rose divine. Thou, little witness to the grave old truth That Art is slow-evolving as the soil, And that thou shalt not carve immortal youth Save with immortal Toil; Thou, in this quiet hall, endur'st among The vext distinguished faces of the dead, Thy kinsmen, whom th' envenomed jewels stung Or poison-posset sped. At sight of these whatever thoughts take shape Only sweet thoughts are ours who mark the low Curls on thy slim neck's inward-curving nape And thy young candid brow! Outside, thy charm forgotten, at the gates Clamour the 'Moderns,' loud with maniac themes, Art is a thing outside of jostling hates, Uncandours, and sick dreams. The Way of Desolation lies without, Soaked with salt tears, but thou, O deathless child, Unstirred by crooked thought or blatant shout, Remainest undefiled. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UNDER THE CEDARCROFT CHESTNUT by SIDNEY LANIER SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: PAULINE BARRETT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON POST-MORTEM by EMILY DICKINSON ODE ON SOLITUDE (FINAL PRINTED VERSION) by ALEXANDER POPE CAROLINA [JANUARY, 1865] by HENRY TIMROD |