BEAUTY'S PAGEANT

What dawn-pulse at the heart of heaven, or last

Incarnate flower of culminating day,—

What marshalled marvels on the skirts of May,

Or song full-quired, sweet June's encomiast;

What glory of change by nature's hand amass'd

Can vie with all those moods of varying grace

Which o'er one loveliest woman's form and face

Within this hour, within this room, have pass'd?

Love's very vesture and elect disguise

Was each fine movement,— wonder new-begot

Of lily or swan or swan-stemmed galiot;

Joy to his sight who now the sadlier sighs,

Parted again; and sorrow yet for eyes

Unborn that read these words and saw her not.