Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/183

Rh To catch the echo of Her flying feet, To mark the flutter of Her waving veil, Still seeking Beauty as a blind man light, A babe the breast, seaman the pilot star. If but Her shadow fall across his book His verse is ageless attar, in a vase Close-seal'd against the tyranny of Time. You take it from it'sits [sic] shelf, and lift the lid, Scent of a long dead Summer breathes again Subtle and sweet as this last June's, that pass'd With all her thronging roses!

Carve or sing, Model or paint, but ever in your work Set what is best in Beauty's honour, grave Your golden sentence with a golden pen, For Style is the expression fair and feat Of exquisite impression. So the die The minter presses on the molten gold