Love THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, The churlish thistles, scented briers, The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes, Down to the central fires, Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea Filling all the abysses dim Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally Suns and their bright broods swim. This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides, Is sternly just to sun and grain; 'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides, 'Tis in my blood and brain. All things have something more than barren use; There is a scent upon the brier, A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews, Cold morns are fringed with fire. The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath'd flowers; In music dies poor human speech, And into beauty blow those hearts of ours When Love is born in each. Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give. The world is very lovely. O my God, I thank Thee that I live!
Where beauty is worshipped for beauty's sake as a goddess, independent of and superior to morality and philosophy, the most horrible putrefaction is apt to set in. The lives of the aesthetes are the far from edifying commentary on the religion of beauty.