For Beauty has taken refuge from our life
That grew too loud and wounding . . .
Beauty is gone, (Oh, where?)
To dwell within a precinct of pure air
Where moments turn to months of solitude;
To live on roots of fern and tips of fern,
On tender berries flushed with the earth’s blood.
Beauty shall stain her feet with moss
And dye her cheek with deep nut-juices
Laving her hands in the pure sluices