When Truth and Good like phantoms fade Into the reddening West, My Moon of Beauty rises soft To soothe an aching breast. When Reason’s lamp grows dim and faint, And Aspiration’s wing Beats feebly on the starless dark, I take my pipe and sing. For Beauty, whether seen or heard – When Truth nor Goodness can – May woo the weary heart from tears And soothe the grief of man.
