Here in the self is all that man can know Of Beauty, all the wonder, all the power, All the unearthly colour, all the glow, Here in the self which withers like a flower; Here in the self which fades as hours pass, And droops and dies and rots and is forgotten Sooner, by ages, than the mirroring glass In which it sees its glory still unrotten. Here in the flesh, within the flesh, behind, Swift in the blood and throbbing on the bone, Beauty herself, the universal mind, Eternal April wandering alone; The God, the holy Ghost, the atoning Lord, Here in the flesh, the never yet explored. XXXI. Flesh, I have knocked at many a dusty door, Gone down full many a windy midnight lane, Probed in old walls and felt along the floor, Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane. But useless all, though sometimes when the moon Was full in heaven and the sea was full, Along my body's alleys came a tune Played in the tavern by the Beautiful. Then for an instant I have felt at point To find and seize her, whosoe'er she be, Whether some saint whose glory doth anoint Those whom she loves, or but a part of me, Or something that the things not understood Make for their uses out of flesh and blood. XXXII. But all has passed, the tune has died away, The glamour gone, the glory; is it chance? Is the unfeeling mud stabbed by a ray Cast by an unseen splendour's great advance? Or does the glory gather crumb by crumb Unseen, within, as coral islands rise, Till suddenly the apparitions come Above the surface, looking at the skies? Or does sweet Beauty dwell in lovely things Scattering the holy hintings of her name In women, in dear friends, in flowers, in springs, In the brook's voice, for us to catch the same? Or is it we who are Beauty, we who ask? We by whose gleams the world fulfils its task. XXXIII. These myriad days, these many thousand hours, A man's long life, so choked with dusty things, How little perfect poise with perfect powers, Joy at the heart and Beauty at the springs. One hour, or two, or three, in long years scattered Sparks from a smithy that have fired a thatch, Are all that life has given and all that mattered; The rest, all heaving at a moveless latch. For these, so many years of useless toil, Despair, endeavour, and again despair, Sweat, that the base machine may have its oil, Idle delight to tempt one everywhere. A life upon the cross. To make amends, Three flaming memories that the deathbed ends. XXXIV.