All My Ships Adrift

Beauty

The Lord picks His arrows well,

Then He shoots, though not to kill,

And on our heart were those shafts fell,

Is the anguish felt by beauty.

An itch, a pain; a chiming bell-

A longing note in every knell,

That aching hope inside the spell:

"Can't beauty last eternally?"

The heart beat quickens at the thrill,

Then eyes lift to a holy hill,

And glimpse the home where beauties dwell,

Across a pit dark as the sea.

And on our lips an uttered yell,

Screeches o're that pit of hell,

And begs to pass onto the hill,

Where dwells the face of beauty.

For could it be His sovereign will,

That none should suffer in that hell,

But choose the beauty of that hill,

Where love is felt most truly?