"My Spirit, Sore from Marching

My spirit, sore from marching
   Toward that receding west
Where Pity shall be governor,
   With Wisdom for his guest:

Lie down beside these waters
   That bubble from the spring;
Hear in the desert silence
   The desert sparrow sing;

Draw from the shapeless moment
   Such pattern as you can;
And cleave henceforth to Beauty;
   Expect no more from man.

Man, with his ready answer,
   His sad and hearty word,
For every cause in limbo,
   For every debt deferred,

For every pledge forgotten,
   His eloquent and grim
Deep empty gaze upon you,--
   Expect no more from him.

From cool and aimless Beauty
   Your bread and comfort take,
Beauty, that made no promise
   And has no word to break;

Have eyes for beauty only,
   That has no eyes for you;
Follow her struck pavilion,
   Halt with her retinue;

Catch from the board of beauty
   Such careless crumbs as fall.
Here's hope for priest and layman;
   Here's heresy for all."

--Millay, op cit