To what serves mortal beauty dangerous; does set danc-

ing blood the O-seal-that-so feature, flung prouder form

Than Purcell tune lets tread to? See: it does this: keeps warm

Men’s wits to the things that are; what good means—where a glance

Master more may than gaze, gaze out of countenance.

Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh windfalls of war’s storm,

How then should Gregory, a father, have gleanèd else from swarmed Rome?

But God to a nation dealt that day’s dear chance.

To man, that needs would worship block or barren stone,

Our law says: Love what are love’s worthiest, were all known;

World’s loveliest—men’s selves. Self flashes off frame and face.

What do then? how meet beauty? Merely meet it; own,

Home at heart, heaven’s sweet gift; then leave, let that alone.

Yea, wish that though, wish all, God’s better beauty, grace.