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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.”
Thomas Aird [1802–1876]