BEAUTY AND ART

The gods are dead; but still for me

Lives on in wildwood brook and tree

Each myth, each old divinity.

For me still laughs among the rocks

The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks

Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks.

The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam;

And, whiter than the wind-blown foam,

The Oread haunts her mountain home.

To him, whose mind is fain to dwell

With loveliness no time can quell,

All things are real, imperishable.

To him — whatever facts may say —

Who sees the soul beneath the clay,

Is proof of a diviner day.

The very stars and flowers preach

A gospel old as God, and teach

Philosophy a child may reach;

That cannot die; that shall not cease;

That lives through idealities

Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece.

That lifts the soul above the clod,

And, working out some period

Of art, is part and proof of God.