Beauty
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HAT does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease,No man, woman, or child alive could pleaseMe now. And yet I almost dare to laughBecause I sit and frame an epitaph--"Here lies all that no one loved of himAnd that loved no one." Then in a trice that whimHas wearied. But, though I am like a riverAt fall of evening while it seems that neverHas the sun lighted it or warmed it, whileCross breezes cut the surface to a file,This heart, some fraction of me, happilyFloats through the window even now to a treeDown in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale,Not like a pewit that returns to wailFor something it has lost, but like a doveThat slants unswerving to its home and love.There I find my rest, and through the dusk airFlies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there.
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