By George Sterling
As sound is not, except an ear apprise,
Nor light, save when recording eyes attend,
So in the mind hath beauty birth and end,
Nor station in Time's aspect otherwise.
Between thy brows are Music's farthest skies,
And from thy seats of dream her wings ascend.
No fragrance is, unless thy spirit lend,
And of thyself the morning hath its dyes.
Now blooms the mystic flower: what Hand hath sown?
Now gleam its iris-hues: what Breath hath blown
The bubble beauty risen from thy brain,
And as a mirror evident of thee?
Gaze: let the glass distort thy dust in vain !
Behold thyself—thyself a mystery!