Beauty was born of the world's desire Beauty was born of the world's desire For the wandering water, the wandering fire. For the wandering water, the wandering fire. Under the arch of her hurrying feet, Under the arch of her hurrying feet, She has trodden a world full of bittersweet. She has trodden a world full of bittersweet. The blood of the violet is in her veins; Her pulse has the passion of April rains. Out of the heart of a satin flower God made her eyelids in one sweet hour. The blood of the violet is in her veins; Out of the wind He made her feet Her pulse has the passion of April rains. That they might be lovely, and luring, and fleet. Out of the heart of a satin flower Out of a cloud He wove her hair God made her eyelids in one sweet hour. Heavy and black with the rain held there. What is her name? There's none that knows- Mother-o'-mischief, or Mouth-o'-rose. What is her pathway? None may tell, But it climbs to heaven and it dips to hell. Out of the wind He made her feet The garment on her is mist and fire, That they might be lovely, and luring, and fleet. Anger and sorrow and heart's desire. Out of a cloud He wove her hair Her forehead-jewel 's an amethyst; Heavy and black with the rain held there. The garland to her is love-in-a-mist. Her girdle is of the beryl-stone, And one dark rose for her flower has grown, Filled to the brim with the strength o' the sun, A passionate rose, and only one. What is her name? There's none that knows- The bird in her breast sings all day long Mother-o'-mischief, or Mouth-o'-rose. A wonderful, wistful, whispering song, What is her pathway? None may tell, The song that is of all passing things: But it climbs to heaven and it dips to hell. None knows it-wingless or born with wings. The garment on her is mist and fire, Anger and sorrow and heart's desire. Her forehead-jewel 's an amethyst; The garland to her is love-in-a-mist. Her girdle is of the beryl-stone, And one dark rose for her flower has grown, Filled to the brim with the strength o' the sun, A passionate rose, and only one. The bird in her breast sings all day long A wonderful, wistful, whispering song, The song that is of all passing things: None knows it-wingless or born with wings. |