To what serves mortal beauty | —dangerous; does set danc- Ing blood—the O-seal-that-so | feature, flung prouder form Than Purcell tune lets tread to? | See: it does this: keeps warm Men’s wits to the things that are; | what good means—where a glance Master more may than gaze, | gaze out of countenance. Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh | windfalls of war’s storm, How then should Gregory, a father, | have gleanèd else from swarm- Ed Rome? But God to a nation | dealt that day’s dear chance. To man, that needs would worship | block or barren stone, Our law says / Love what are | love’s worthiest, were all known; World’s loveliest—men’s selves. Self | flashes off frame and face. What do then? how meet beauty? | Merely meet it; own, Home at heart, heaven’s sweet gift; | then leave, let that alone. Yea, wish that though, wish all, | God’s better beauty, grace.