Beauty

This poem appears in the Winter 2014 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.

No sunset glory, no silver-hazed dawn,
No eagle sailing high, no arch-necked swan                   
Swimming erect, no graceful light of fawn,
No play of wind ruffling with sweet unrest
White blossoms on pear trees or a girl’s breast,
No majesty of age, no grace of youth,
No face enlivened by the light of truth.
No swift Shakespearean flood of harmony,
No Blakean vision, Keatsian ecstasy,
No strain of music fetching from the heart
Deep sorrow turned into joy, and no art
Of pencil, brush, or chisel, setting the seal
Of genius on matter, no, none can explain
Beauty’s power to heal or soothe all pain.
Out of sense impressions so diverse, how will
Our mind receive a single impression, how
Surmise a simple essence, shining now
And ever, one, solitary and still,
Unless it flows from some transcendent height
Capturing our consciousness with all its might?