Flowers,
loved for their outer loveliness
Are
hardly to be praised for their inner
Which
goes by all unseen and hidden;
There
is little beauty, except to the
Wielder
and lover of a microscope
To
the sight of it – for it is opposite:
Outer
beauty of language – to delight
Outer
beauty of form – to please
Or,
inner beauty of content – which only
Appears
to offend – are all three
Given,
of course, by the willing well
Within
– but I sometimes wonder
What
will come next – and that that
Seems
to be only plainer and plainer
And
when I could wish it otherwise!
More
surely, and truly, I must adhere
To
my given mandate to write without
Any
thought as to the what, or the why of it.
*
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