Classic Poem

Who brings a thought of self to Beauty's shrine,
Or jealows envy, by so much the less
Shall feel within his soul her deep impress —
Shall thrill at quaffing of her mystic wine.
For Beauty hath no care for thine or mine,
But wasteth wide in wanton loveliness;
And only thus, in self-forgetfulness,
Shall any share with her the life divine.

O happy he whose heart doth full respond
To wandering Beauty's spell — wherever wrought!
He hath a pleasure finer than all thought
That instant as the touch of fairy wand
Makes rich the World for him, whate'er his lot, —
E'en tho' perchance a homeless vagabond.