But what of art? Can art no solace hold,
No soothing spikenard, soporose drug or wine
To woo the wounded soul? Must men grow old
In agony? Or has some thought divine
Slipped down upon us, cool, compassionate?
But what of art? Can art's frail power refine
Our souls into that Oversoul, and mate
The each with All in one, sublime design?
Art is the vision of that Truth innate
In man. A soul, prismatic, crystalline,
May show each glow of being with each strife
At once reflected and becalmed, and twine
Then into some new, inward world all rife
With spirit blisses of a spirit life.