Beauty of itself is the final shrine And takes no template from earth's creeping things But is beyond blatentest gawds divine Descending not among our tangled strings 5 Nor standing off past moons' unequal light Feigning variation by what our eyes, Subject to death's mutiny, for delight Must clasp, and our reliquary judgments say permanent or wise-- No, no; beauty is of sager colors 10 Than our tests, which trick ourselves and others best. What form owns the rainbow in white heaven Forever bright, and the sun tattooed gold Radiant on eternal skin unshaven? 15 There altar boys attend a pageant mass To comfort those who never shall grow old; And lame Time dawdles by a frozen font Thinning unkillable fleas from heaven's cloudy sheep; And disconsolate Death sits staring at the grass 20 Never to bring another consciousness to sleep As in the dimming world was his constant wont. What form, and out of what majestic sea Steps the vanished bridegroom to his wedded feast 25 Heavy with ripe apples and solemn pairs Moving, two by two, through the forest crease Into the dauntless levity of the sun? For there in high paradise, unviewed, far, Helpless rains may never fall, never mar, 30 The simple perfection of that expected guest For whom cold doves wait in the gloomy sun, The banished crow is silent, and we rest.
From the collection "Hymns"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.