Ode 147

BEAUTY alone will not account for her;

No single attribute her charm explains;

Though each be named, beyond it glimmers she,

Strangely distinct, mysteriously fair:

Hers this, this hers, and this—yet she remains.

Wonderful are her locks—she is not there;

Her body a spirit is—it is not she;

Her waist the compass of a silken thread;

Her mouth a ruby—but it is not she:

Say all of her, yet hast thou nothing said.

Surely the beauty of houri or of fay

A fashion of beauty is—but to my eye

Her way of beauty is beauty's only way

Unto this spring, sweet rose, pray draw anigh;

Sweet water 't is—my tears—to water thee.

Thine eye, ah! what an arrow! thine eyebrow,

How strong a bow! and what an archer thou!

Ah! what a target hast thou made of me.

Love's secret verily no one man knows,

Though each in lore of loving deems him wise;

Love 's like a meadow all aflower with spring,

But in the shadow autumn waiting lies,

And the wise bird is half afraid to sing—

A vanished song unto a vanished rose.

Of late hath stolen subtly in thy song,

Through thy firm reed unwonted pathos blows;

Her praise it is, and no new touch of art,

That gives this grace of tears unto thy song.