Beauty Poem by Nora Jane Hopper Chesson

Beauty was born of the world's desire
For the wandering water, the wandering fire.
Under the arch of her hurrying feet,
She has trodden a world full of bittersweet.


The blood of the violet is in her veins;
Her pulse has the passion of April rains.
Out of the heart of a satin flower
God made her eyelids in one sweet hour.


Out of the wind He made her feet
That they might be lovely, and luring, and fleet.
Out of a cloud He wove her hair
Heavy and black with the rain held there.


What is her name? There's none that knows-
Mother-o'-mischief, or Mouth-o'-rose.
What is her pathway? None may tell,
But it climbs to heaven and it dips to hell.


The garment on her is mist and fire,
Anger and sorrow and heart's desire.
Her forehead-jewel 's an amethyst;
The garland to her is love-in-a-mist.


Her girdle is of the beryl-stone,
And one dark rose for her flower has grown,
Filled to the brim with the strength o' the sun,
A passionate rose, and only one.


The bird in her breast sings all day long
A wonderful, wistful, whispering song,
The song that is of all passing things:
None knows it-wingless or born with wings.