whatever’s merely wilful,

whatever’s merely wilful,
and not miraculous
(be never it so skilful)
must wither fail and cease
—but better than to grow
beauty knows no

their goal(in calm and fury:
through joy and anguish)who’ve
made her,outglory glory
the little while they live—
unless by your thinking
forever’s long

let beauty touch a blunder
(called life)we die to breathe,
itself becomes her wonder
—and wonderful is death;
but more,the older he’s
the younger she’s