Beauty Walk

She walks in Beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent! Beauty is brief and violent

like the white thunderbolt

of Nilgiri slow and sudden

braided like her hair. When we look at ourselves

We see ourselves through eyes

Which have been schooled

To see comely only the opaque,

Comely to us skin that is fair,

Comely to us eyes that are light,

Comely to us hair that is straight, The beauty of a woman

isn’t in the clothes she wears,

The figure that she carries, I died for beauty, but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb,

When one who died for truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

or the way she combs her hair.

Comely to us lips that are thin, The night is beautiful,

So the faces of my people. And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty.

And he answered:

Where shall you seek beauty, and how

shall you find her unless she herself be your

way and your guide?

And how shall you speak of her except

she be the weaver of your speech? Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;

Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;

Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

For that sweet odour which doth in it live. Snowdrop of dogs, with ear of brownest dye,

Like the last orphan leaf of naked tree

Which shudders in black autumn; though by thee,

Of hearing careless and untutored eye, Still will I harvest beauty where it grows:

In coloured fungus and the spotted fog

Surprised on foods forgotten; in ditch and bog

Filmed brilliant with irregular rainbows

Of rust and oil, where half a city throws

Its empty tins; and in some spongy log A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its lovliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. I bought a dishmop—

having no daughter—

for they had twisted

fine ribbons of shining copper Or aught but beautiful,

Or sleek to doves’ wings of the wood

Her wild wings of a gull.

Say not of beauty she is good, a sonnet in every tree,

a tale in every lifetime

its just for you to see… Beauty is brief and violent

like the white thunderbolt

of Nilgiri slow and sudden

braided like her hair The beauty of a woman

isn’t in the clothes she wears,

The figure that she carries,

or the way she combs her hair.