I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? “For beauty,” I replied. “And I for truth,—the two are one; We brethren are,” he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

To hear an Oriole singMay be a common thing —Or only a divine.It is not of the BirdWho sings the same, unheard,As unto Crowd —The Fashion of the EarAttireth that it hearIn Dun, or fair —So whether it be Rune,Or whether it be noneIs of within.The "Tune is in the Tree —"The Skeptic — showeth me —"No Sir! In Thee!

Beauty is not caused. It is.

Not “Revelation” – tis – that waitsBut our unfurnished eyes –

Beauty crowds me till I die. Beauty, mercy have on me! Yet if I expire to-day Let it be in sight of thee!

Remember if you marry for beauty, thou bindest thyself all thy life for that which perchance, will neither last nor please thee one year: and when thou hast it, it will be to thee of no price at all.