Chapter XVII

Eternal art can triumph over pain;
And once we breathe the lotus-fragrance deep,
The world may scream with iron tongue in vain,
For all the argosy is soothed to sleep.
The ships may rot forever on the sand;
And far off Greece may wait and faintly weep.
More rare than spice from silken Samarkand,
More sorrow-sweet than young Francesca's tears,
More fair than yearning night upon the strand,
And more majestic than Anchises' years:
Beauty's the image, not the thing. 'Tis shod
With rainbow lightnings of the hopes and fears,
And knows each step humanity may plod.
Art is the Beauty of the face of God.