54004: Beauty

<p dir="ltr"> What does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease,<br> No man, woman, or child alive could please<br> Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh<br> Because I sit and frame an epitaph---<br> 'Here lies all that no one loved of him<br> And that loved no one,' Then in a trice that whim<br> Has wearied. But, though I am like a river<br> At fall of evening while it seems that never<br> Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while<br> Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,<br> This heart, some fraction of me, happily<br> Floats through the window even now to a tree<br> Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale,<br> Not like a pewit that returns to wail<br> For something it has lost, but like a dove<br> That slants unswerving to its home and love.<br> There I find my rest, and through the dusk air<br> Flies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there.<br></p>