You poets, born of astral dust
And lunar filaments,
From heaven stream your sentiments,
Divine your trust!
You poets, fly from worldly cares,
Guard well your sacred souls,
You are not of the sphere that rolls
In rude despairs.
You spirits, doomed to roam the earth
And seek the Beautiful,
Take hope though roads seem ever full
Of Beauty's dearth.
For Mistress Beauty may be found
If heavenward you seek,
She dwells upon a lofty peak,
Not on the ground.
Yet poets, though she be your quest
Few make it through the fray,
Or from this care-worn world will stray
Upon her breast.
So poets, if you find at last
The embraces of an elf
In whom coy Beauty is herself,
Why, hold her fast!
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