And guides the blast that feeds Pygmalion fires.

{69}

{69}

LXIX.

O Beauty is too holy to be handled

By the indiscriminate, rude, critic-touch!

Gently be its timorous, blushing blossoms dandled

On the fringed boughs, coy to the breezes’ clutch;

Yea the ransack’d Past’s aroma should dwell on it,

While the coronetted Future, breathing, fann’d it:

The flowers of love garden its paths and throng it,

And Fancy’s cloud-like sails on lone stars land it:

It should be the idea’s gradual unfolding,

Whose rosebud leaves astonish niggard Hope:

It should be the delicate and fleece-like moulding

That snowy clouds build on the heaven’s blue scope:

It should be,—who can say except the heart?

It should be all, nor lovelier than thou art.

{70}

{70}

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