By George Sterling

The fairest things seem ever loneliest:
    The whitest lily ever blooms alone,
    And purest winds from widest seas are flown.
High on her utmost tower of the West
Sits Beauty, baffling an eternal quest;
    From out her gates and oriels unknown
    The murmurs of her citadels are blown
To blue horizons of the world's unrest.

We know that we shall seek her till we die,
    And find her not at all, the fair and far:
Her pure domain is wider than the sky,
    And never night revealed her whitest star;
        Beyond the sea and sun her feet have trod;
        Her vision is our memory of God.

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