The Muse of the Incommunicable

By George Sterling

An echo often have our singers caught,
    And they that bend above the saddened strings;
    One hue of all the hundred on her wings
Our painters render, and our men of thought
In realms mysterious her face have sought
    And glimpsed its marvel in elusive things.
    Her fragrance gathers and her shadow clings
To all the loveliness that man hath wrought.

The wind of lonely places is her wine.
    Still she eludes us, hidden, husht and fleet,
        A star withdrawn, a music in the gloom.
Beauty and death her speechless lips assign,
    Where silence is, and where the surf-loud feet
        Of armies wander on the sands of doom.

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