BEAUTY is still immortal in our eyes; <br />When sways no more the spirit-haunted reed, <br />When the wild grape shall build <br />No more her canopies, <br />When blows no more the moon-gray thistle seed, <br />When the last bell has lulled the white flocks home, <br />When the last eve has stilled <br />The wandering wing and touched the dying foam, <br />When the last moon burns low, and, spark by spark, <br />The little worlds die out along the dark,– <br /> <br />Beauty that rosed the moth-wing, touched the land <br />With clover-horns and delicate faint flowers, <br />Beauty that bade the showers <br />Beat on the violet's face, <br />Shall hold the eternal heavens within their place <br />And hear new stars come singing from God's hand.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-immortal/
