The Font of Beauty

By George Sterling

Because of thee the star-crost dome of night
    Adds love and rapture to infinity;
    Wherefore should sunsets burn, expect that we
Drain to our souls the splendors of their flight?
With thee shall I tread Andes of delight
    Beneath my feet as mole-hills, till I see
    That God Himself is sure because of thee,
And thou and I dear children in His sight.

Thy hands have strewn the roses of the dawn;
    Thy face repays for every flower that dies;
        Thy whisper is the song Astarte sings!
Thy grace hath caught its silence from the faun;
    Thy heart hath stolen starlight from the skies;
        Thy spirit is the wind of Beauty's wings!

Written in Carmel.

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