Nor be the lesser arts forgot
On which Life feeds and knows it not,
That everywhere from roof to portal
Beauty may speak of the immortal:
Forms that the fancy over-fill;
Colors that give the sense a thrill;
Soft lights that fall through opal glass
On mellow stuffs and sturdy brass;
Corners of secrecy that invite
Comfort, the handmaid of Delight;
The very breath of sculptures old
Held poised within a perfect mold;
A dainty vase of Venice make,
Fashioned for its one rose's sake—
Ay, winter's miracle of flowers
To cheat the mood and mask the hours:
Love's velvet-petaled pledge of June,
That, on the wings of Passion strewn,
Made courtly Persia conqueror
Of thrice the world she lost in war;—
Jonquils, that Tuscan sunshine hold
Within their happy hearts of gold;—
Narcissus, such as still are found
By Marathon's mountain-envied mound—
Food of the soul, well bought with bread,
As sage Hippocrates hath said.
All these perchance shall faintly yield.
Odors from some Sicilian field
Where young Theocritus deep-strayed
In blooms celestial—where his shade,
Haunting his storied Syracuse,
Finds balm for his neglected Muse.
Add wanton smilax to entwine
Your Dancing FauNor God of Wine,
And you shall summon in a band
The joys of every summer land.