Chapter I: CANNOT live with Beauty out of mind;

I seek her and desire her all the day,
Being the chiefest treasure man may find,
And word most sweet his eager lips can say.
She is as strong on me as though I wandered
In Severn meadows some blue riotous day.

But since the trees have long since lost their green,
And I, an exile, can but dream of things
Grown magic in the mind, I watch the sheen
Of frost and hear the song Orion sings,
And hear the star-born passion of Beethoven;
Man’s consolations sung on the quivering strings.

Beauty of song remembered, sunset glories,
Mix in my mind, till I not care nor know
Whether the stars do move me, golden stories,
Or ruddy Cotswold in the sunset glow.
I am uprapt, and not my own, immortal, ...
In winds of Beauty swinging to and fro.

Beauty immortal, not to be hid, desire
Of all men, each in his fashion, give me the strong
Thirst past satisfaction for thee, and fire
Not to be quenched.... O lift me, bear me along,
Touch me, make me worthy that men may seek me
For Beauty, Mistress Immortal, Healer of Wrong.

SONG OF PAIN AND BEAUTY

[_To_ M. M. S.]

O MAY these days of pain,
These wasted-seeming days,
Somewhere reflower again
With scent and savour of praise.
Draw out of memory all bitterness
Of night with Thy sun’s rays.

And strengthen Thou in me
The love of men here found,
And eager charity,
That, out of difficult ground,
Spring like flowers in barren deserts, or
Like light, or a lovely sound.

A simpler heart than mine
Might have seen beauty clear
Where I could see no sign
Of Thee, but only fear.
Strengthen me, make me to see Thy beauty always
In every happening here.

IN TRENCHES, _March 1917_.

SPRING. ROUEN, MAY 1917