They do not feel the vibrant joy of noon, Those wistful souls the world has styled unblest, Who serve their lives as minions of the moon, In fateful bond to Beauty's ancient quest. To mockery, to duty deaf, they press Along the singing ways on winged shoon. The while their gyves beat out a rhythmic rune, An hour they seek of deathless loveliness. Full-blooded earthen joys—and woes—are theirs, But not as sons of noontide weep or woo; Not simply but enmeshed with subtle snares, These minions give their hearts to gain a clue That faintly blazes Beauty's moonlit trail. Strange altars know their dancing and their tears; Haunted by loveliness through groping years, They pour libations from a salty grail. With Beauty's blinding beams are sealed their eyes That never may they look again on truth Save that it wear some mystic glamorous guise,— A dream's enchantment is their only sooth. When their last roof shall be a starry tent, They care not that they lie in hallowed ground: Their only prayer shall ask a shallow mound, Asway with grass, with moonlit dew besprent. —UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA CHRONICLE | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LA PALOMA IN LONDON by CLAUDE MCKAY NOT OUR GOOD LUCK by ROBINSON JEFFERS I SING OF LOVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE ROAD TO AVIGNON by AMY LOWELL ITALIAN PICTURES: THE COSTA SAN GIORGIO by MINA LOY |