By George Sterling

I said: "O Beauty, Beauty yet to be,
  Where sleep your faint beginnings? On what sky
  Shall one behold your wings afar and shy?
What realm is your by what unsounded sea?"

From out the dust my soul a murmur found:
  "Thou treadest me, O questioner! The flower
  Abides below thy foot her fragrant hour,
And I shall weave my raiment of the ground."

From somber skies the softer tidings came:
  "Of these grey mists the wind shall rear my throne
  In lands of sunset where I wait alone
And clasp the lilies of a fading flame."

From out a stagnant pool a whisper crept:
  "Hidden am I. Thou seekest me in vain;
  Yet shall I find the silvern veils of rain
And arch the rainbow when the sky has wept."

And then her voice in wider music rang:
  "In all that seems today most far from me
  I slumber, till tomorrow's eyes shall see
The face thy harps of yestereven sang." 

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