The beauty that men seek is half a dream-- Where'er we wander, yet it lies afar; It touches with its wand a setting star, It stirs the ripple of an ebbing stream. And though we run beyond the dawning gleam, Or kneel to worship at an altar bright, We may not know the soul of its delight, Or more than marvel at its palest beam.
Ah, love, 'tis a sorrowful land!
Let me leap naked through life's testing flame, And bear to lose, and yet endure to win.
Love is a jeering mime.
And should men name me dead, I beg ye, say "Nay, he but wearied here, and went away.
Oh, the morrow of pain and dole Is naught while the sunlight lingers.
Yet earth has never child she may not slay, Nor sea a lover that she cannot kill.
God is a creed outworn, Ill-wrought from a mirage fair, And life is an image pale That faces a sunless morn.
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