Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BEAUTY, by NORA (CHESSON) HOPPER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BEAUTY, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Beauty was born of the world's desire


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
That they might be lovely, and luring, and fleet.
Her pulse has the passion of April rains.
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.

The garment on her is mist and fire,
Out of the wind He made her feet
Anger and sorrow and heart's desire.
That they might be lovely, and luring, and fleet.
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,
The song that is of all passing things:
What is her pathway? None may tell,
None knows it-wingless or born with wings.
But it climbs to heaven and it dips to hell.








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.






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