Two Sonnets: (December 1915)

HERE in the self is all that man can know
Of Beauty: all the wonder, all the power,
All the unearthly color, all the glow;
Here in the self which withers like a flower,
Here in the self which fades as hours pass,
And droops, and dies, and rots, and is forgotten
Sooner, by ages, than the mirroring glass
In which it sees its glory still unrotten.

Here in the flesh, within the flesh, behind,
Swift in the blood and throbbing on the bone —
Beauty herself, the universal mind,
Eternal April wandering alone;
The god, the holy ghost, the atoning lord —
Here in the flesh, the never-yet-explored.

Flesh, I have knocked at many a dusty door,
Gone down full many a windy midnight lane,
Probed in old walls, and felt along the floor,
Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane.
But useless all; though sometimes when the moon
Was full in heaven and the sea was full,
Along my body’s alleys came a tune
Played in the tavern by the Beautiful.

Then for an instant I have felt at point
To find and seize her, whosoe’er she be —
Whether some saint whose glory does anoint
Those whom she loves, or but a part of me,
Or something that the things not understood
Make for their uses out of flesh and blood.