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 swarm-
ed 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.