I am the torch, she saith, and what to
If the moth die of me?
I am the
Of Beauty, and I burn that all may
Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame.
But live with that clear light of perfect
Which is to men the death of their desire.
I am Yseult and Helen,
I have
Troy burn, and the most loving knight lies dead.
The world has been my mirror, time has
My breath upon the glass; and men have said,
Age after age, in rapture and despair,
Love's poor few words, before my image there.
I live, and am immortal; in my
The sorrow of the world, and on my
The joy of life, mingle to make me wise;
Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse:
Who is there lives for beauty?
Still am
The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?
