The Thief Of Beauty.

The mind is Beauty's thief, the poet takes         The golden spendthrift's trail among the blooms         Where she stands tossing silver in the lakes,         And twisting bright swift threads on airy looms.         Her ring the poppy snatches, and the rose         With laughter plunders all her gusty plumes.         He steals behind her, gathering, as she goes         Heedless of summer's end certain and soon, -         Of winter rattling at the door of June.         When Beauty lies hand-folded, pale and still,         Forsaken of her lovers and her lords,         And winter keeps cold watch upon the hill         Then he lets fall his bale of coloured words.         At frosty midnight June shall rise in flame,         Move at his magic with her bells and birds;         The rose will redden as he speaks her name,         He shall release earth's frozen bosom there,         And with great words shall cuff the whining air!