The beautiful, which mocked his fond pursuing, The poet followed long; With passionate purpose the shy shadow wooing, And soul-betraying song. And still the fervor of his fond endeavor To him seemed poured in vain, And all in vain, forever and forever, The sorrow of his strain. But when at last he perished broken-hearted, The world, grown dark and dull, Bewailed the radiance with him departed Who was the Beautiful.
King solomon stood in the house of the Lord, And the Genii silently wrought around, Toiling and moiling without a word, Building the temple without a sound. Fear and rage were theirs, but naught, In mien or face, of fear or rage; For had he guessed their secret thought, They had pined in...
The beautiful, which mocked his fond pursuing, The poet followed long; With passionate purpose the shy shadow wooing, And soul-betraying song. And still the fervor of his fond endeavor To him seemed poured in vain, And all in vain, forever and forever, The sorrow of his strain. But when...
