Comes Beauty with her tale of moon and cloud,

Her silvered rims of mystery pointing in

To hollows of the half-veiled unavowed,

Where beats her secret life, grey heads will spin

Quick as the young, and spell those hieroglyphs

Of phosphorescent dusk, devoutly bent;

They drink a cup to whirl on dizzier cliffs

For their shamed fall, which asks, why was she sent!