Does beauty fault the painter for the poor
Who linger in his background for their alms?
Does beauty scorn the poet for what calms
The rabble, lingering beyond the door?
And does she fault the sculptors who restore
A memory blanked by damage done by bombs?
And could she fault the dancing man who's drawn
A curving footprint on a shattered floor?
I think that beauty walks on human ground;
And breathes our stinking air but will not choke.
I think that beauty knows no perfect round
But follows winding silk, a wisp of smoke.
For beauty, if not reveling in dread,
Would be invisible, or would be dead.