52 Beauty poems

There's a flutter of grey through the trees: Ah, the exquisite curves of her dress as she passes Fleet with her feet on the path where the grass is! I see not her face, I but see The swift re-appearance, the flitting persistence— There!—of that flutter of grey in the distance. It has flickered and fluttered away: What a teasing regret she has left in my day-dream, And what dreams of delight are the dreams that one may dream! It was only a flutter of grey; But the vaguest of raiment's impossible chances Has set my heart beating the way of old dances.

(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond) Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these grey rocks; that household lawn; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode— In truth together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind— Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder Brother I would be, Thy Father—anything to thee! Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And thee, the spirit of them all!

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicéan barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy-Land!

Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as a falcon Or hawk of the tower: With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning In every thing, Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write Of Merry Margaret As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower. As patient and still And as full of good will As fair Isaphill, Coriander, Sweet pomander, Good Cassander, Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought, Far may be sought Ere that ye can find So courteous, so kind As Merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower.

1 There is a gold light in certain old paintings That represents a diffusion of sunlight. It is like happiness, when we are happy. It comes from everywhere and from nowhere at once, this light, And the poor soldiers sprawled at the foot of the cross Share in its charity equally with the cross. 2 Orpheus hesitated beside the black river. With so much to look  forward to he looked back. We think he sang then, but the song is lost. At  least he had seen once more the  beloved back. I say the song went this way:O prolong Now the sorrow if that is all there is to prolong. 3 The world is very dusty, uncle. Let us work. One day the sickness shall pass from the earth for good. The orchard will bloom; someone will play the guitar. Our work will be seen as strong and clean and good. And all that we suffered through having existed Shall be forgotten as though it had never existed.

From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory; But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Though that art now the world’s fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape, Might not compare with his pure ivorie white, On whose faire front a poet’s pen may write, Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape, His love-enticing delicate soft limbs, Are rarely fram’d t’intrap poore gazine eies: His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies, With lovely tincture which Apollo’s dims. His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet, His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe, Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion. His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set. Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring, Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?

there are some people i know whose beauty is a crime. who make you so crazy you don't know whether to throw yourself at them or kill them. which makes for permanent madness. which could be bad for you. you better be on the lookout for such circumstances. stay away from the night. they most likely lurk in corners of the room where they think they being inconspicuous but they so beautiful an aura gives them away. stay away from the day. they most likely be walking down the street when you least expect it trying to look ordinary but they so fine they break your heart by making you dream of other possibilities. stay away from crazy music. they most likely be creating it. cuz when you're that beautiful you can't help putting it out there. everyone knows how dangerous that can get. stay away from magic shows. especially those involving words. words are very tricky things. everyone knows words the most common instruments of illusion. they most likely be saying them, breathing poems so rhythmic you can't help but dance. and once you start dancing to words you might never stop.

Still to be neat, still to be dressed, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed; Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all th'adulteries of art. They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?— Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;— I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.