Methinks there is no greater work in life
Than making beauty. Can the mind conceive
One little corner in celestial realms
Unbeautiful, or dull or commonplace?
Or picture ugly angels, illy clad?
Beauty and splendour, opulence and joy,
Are attributes of God and His domain,
And so are worth and virtue. But why preach
Of virtue only to the sons of men,
Ignoring beauty, till they think it sin?
Why, if each dweller on this little globe
Could know the sacred meaning of that word
And understand its deep significance,
Men’s thoughts would form in beauty, till their dreams
Of heaven would find expression in their lives,
However humble; they themselves would grow
Godlike, befitting such a fair estate.
Let us be done with what is only good,
Demanding here and now the beautiful;
Lest, with the mind and eye on earth untrained,
We shall be ill at ease when heaven is gained.
ON AVON’S BREAST I SAW A STATELY SWAN
One day when England’s June was at its best,
I saw a stately and imperious swan
Floating on Avon’s fair untroubled breast.
Sudden, it seemed as if all strife had gone
Out of the world; all discord, all unrest.
The sorrows and the sinnings of the race
Faded away like nightmares in the dawn.
All heaven was one blue background for the grace
Of Avon’s beautiful, slow-moving swan;
And earth held nothing mean or commonplace.
Life seemed no longer to be hurrying on
With unbecoming haste; but softly trod,
As one who reads in emerald leaf, or lawn,
Or crimson rose a message straight from God.
. . . . .
On Avon’s breast I saw a stately swan.
THE LITTLE GO-CART
It was long, long ago that a soul like a flower
Unfolded, and blossomed, and passed in an hour.
It was long, long ago; and the memory seems
Like the pleasures and sorrows that come in our dreams.
The kind years have crowned me with many a joy
Since the going away of my wee little boy;
Each one as it passed me has stooped with a kiss,
And left some delight—knowing one thing I miss.
But when in the park or the street, all elate
A baby I see in his carriage of state,
As proud as a king, in his little go-cart—
I feel all the mother-love stir in my heart!
And I seem to be back in that long-vanished May;
And the baby, who came but to hurry away
In the little white hearse, is not dead, but alive,
And out in his little go-cart for a drive.