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Tell me, shepherds, have you seen My Flora pass this way? In shape and feature Beauty's queen, In pastoral array.

Beauty soon grows familiar to the lover, Fades in his eye, and palls upon the sense.

What is lovely never dies, But passes into other loveliness, Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower or winged air.

I must not say that she was true, Yet let me say that she was fair; And they, that lovely face who view, They should not ask if truth be there.

The beautiful are never desolate; But some one alway loves them--God or man. If man abandons, God himself takes them.

There's nothing that allays an angry mind So soon as a sweet beauty.

Ye Gods! but she is wondrous fair! For me her constant flame appears; The garland she hath culled, I wear On brows bald since my thirty years. Ye veils that deck my loved one rare, Fall, for the crowning triumph's nigh. Ye Gods! but she is wondrous fair! And I, so plain a man am I!

The beauty seems right By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong Because of weakness.

The essence of all beauty, I call love, The attribute, the evidence, and end, The consummation to the inward sense Of beauty apprehended from without, I still call love.

And behold there was a very stately palace before him, the name of which was Beautiful.

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonized the whole, And, oh! the eye was in itself a Soul!

Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess, The might--the majesty of Loveliness?

Thou who hast The fatal gist of beauty.

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning.

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

She walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless chimes 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.

All kinds of beauty do not inspire love; there is a kind which only pleases the sight, but does not captivate the affections.

Exceeding fair she was not; and yet fair In that she never studied to be fairer Than Nature made her; her beauty cost her nothing, Her virtues were so rare.

I pour into the world the eternal streams Wan prophets tent beside, and dream their dreams.

She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me: Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.