Beauty And Art

The gods are dead; but still for me     Lives on in wildwood brook and tree     Each myth, each old divinity.     For me still laughs among the rocks     The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks     Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks.     The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam;     And, whiter than the wind-blown foam,     The Oread haunts her mountain home.     To him, whose mind is fain to dwell     With loveliness no time can quell,     All things are real, imperishable.     To him - whatever facts may say -     Who sees the soul beneath the clay,     Is proof of a diviner day.     The very stars and flowers preach     A gospel old as God, and teach     Philosophy a child may reach;     That cannot die; that shall not cease;     That lives through idealities     Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece.     That lifts the soul above the clod,     And, working out some period     Of art, is part and proof of God.