Classic Poem

Speak not of Beauty till the world grows pale
With the soft snow that falls upon its face.
On iron mornings when trees interlace,
And boughs that once were opulent grow frail;
When every moment is a fairy-tale,
A frosted legend of white stole and mace,
I think of those who left their chimney-place,
Ascetic seekers of the Holy Grail.

Now the ground sings with clamor sharp and keen,
And the whole earth is like an eremite,
Upon his shoulders a long cape of white,
In quest of Loveliness. Who has not seen
This hoary man his patient pathway trace
Has lost the beauty of a saintly face.