The poem
To what serves mortal beauty '—dangerous; does set danc- ing blood—the O-seal-that-so ' feature, flung prouder form Than Purcell tune lets tread to? ' See: it does this: keeps warm Men's wits to the things that are; ' what good means—where a glance Master more may than gaze, ' gaze out of countenance. Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh ' windfalls of war's storm, How then should Gregory, a father, ' have gleanèd else from swarm- ed Rome? But God to a nation ' dealt that day's dear chance. To man, that needs would worship ' block or barren stone, Our law says: Love what are ' love's worthiest, were all known; World's loveliest—men's selves. Self ' flashes off frame and face. What do then? how meet beauty? ' Merely meet it; own, Home at heart, heaven's sweet gift; ' then leave, let that alone. Yea, wish that though, wish all, ' God's better beauty, grace.