The Beautiful Descends Not
In Cyprus, looking on the lovely sky,
Lone by the marge of music-haunted streams,
A youthful poet pray’d: “Descend from high,
Thou of whose face each youthful poet dreams.
Once more, Urania, to the earth be given
The beauty that makes beautiful the heaven.”
Swift to a silver cloudlet, floating o’er,
A rushing Presence rapt him as he pray’d;
What he beheld I know not, but once more
The midnight heard him sighing to the shade,
“Again, again unto the earth be given
The beauty that makes beautiful the heaven.”
“In vain,” a sweet voice answer’d from the star,
“Her grace on thee Urania did bestow:
Unworthy he the loftier realms afar,
Who woos the gods above to earth below;
Rapt to the Beautiful thy soul must be,
And not the Beautiful debased to thee!”