Art has her altars and her avatars,
Makers of Beauty worship at her shrine;
Earth may not daunt a soul that scans the stars
And wets the lips with more than mortal wine.

Imagination's frankincense and myrrh
Bedew the dust and sweeten common day;
The poet walks in meadows lovelier
Than ours, and visions light his wandering way.

Once having known the ecstasy of these,
Once having glimpsed that high supernal gleam,
A Sappho sings across the centuries,
A Poe sleeps, folded in that perfect dream.