Beauty

No man has set his foot on any land But beauty’s steps have long preceded him, Nor climbed a mountain but her steady hand Has spread a cloud upon its highest rim. There is no burning desert man has taken Seeking the bones of men who have gone before, But to some far oasis his eyes awaken Discovering her earlier signature. Always a man must follow, like sparrows’ winging, The wild, clear winds of beauty down the earth, Find his own song an echo of her singing, His laughter but a pattern of her mirth; Find even upon the lips of love each day The light of dawn that he must kiss away.