The Font of Beauty
By George Sterling
Because of thee the star-crost dome of night
Adds love and rapture to infinity;
Wherefore should sunsets burn, expect that we
Drain to our souls the splendors of their flight?
With thee shall I tread Andes of delight
Beneath my feet as mole-hills, till I see
That God Himself is sure because of thee,
And thou and I dear children in His sight.
Thy hands have strewn the roses of the dawn;
Thy face repays for every flower that dies;
Thy whisper is the song Astarte sings!
Thy grace hath caught its silence from the faun;
Thy heart hath stolen starlight from the skies;
Thy spirit is the wind of Beauty's wings!
Written in Carmel.