Poem by Thomas Aird

The Translation of Beauty

Skirts of sunny-sifted showers!
There the wild bee,
How privileged he,
Childe of the yellow belt and bands of jet,
Sucking the nipples of the maiden flowers,
All honey-wet!
Drops and darkness eastward borne,
Glancingly go;
Thereon the Bow
Stands in the sea: from out the greening brine,
The white gull twinkles in the violet horn,
Bended divine.
Beauties of a summer day,
How soon ye die!
“Nay, through Man's eye
Glad soul we grow; in soul translated on,
We take our place, and live in praise for aye,
Round the White Throne.” 

1. My Mother's Grave
2. Song the Seventh
3. To the Memory of a City Pastor
4. Fitte the First
5. Song the Fourth

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