The loveliest things of earth are not
Her lilies, waterfalls and trees,
Or clouds that float like still white stone
Carved upon azure seas,
Or snow-bright orchids, scarlet-lipped,
In the darkness of damp woods,
In hush of shadowy leaves,
Or the pale foam that lights the coast
Of earth on moonless eves.

The Moon is lovely and the sea's
Bright shadow on the sand,
The phantom vessel as it flies
Out from a phantom land,
And hung above the darkling earth
Moored in a crystal sky,
A fleet of phantom lights;
These are but beauty's fading flags,
Her perishable delights.

But in transparency of thought
Out of the branched, dark-foliaged word
Shimmers a strange, soft-flitting light
Shy as a forest bird.
It is most lovely, and it sings
Strange songs to sense unknown,
Dim songs of earthly doom,
Of an immortal happiness
In the soul's deepening gloom.