Francis Joseph Sherman

(February 3, 1871 – June 15, 1926 / New Brunswick)

The House of Beauty


She pauseth; and as each great mirror swings
(O ruined Helen, O once golden hair)
I see Œnone’s ashes scattered there.
Another, and, behold, the shadowed things
Are violated tombs of shrunken kings.


And yet another (O, how thou wert fair!),
And I see one, black-clad, who prayeth where
No sound of sword on cloven helmet rings.
Yet, were I Paris, once more should I see
Troy’s seaward gates for us swung open wide.


Or old Nile’s glory, were I Anthony.
Or were I Launcelot, the garden-side
At Joyous Gard. Surely; for even to me,
Where Love hath lived hath Beauty never died.

Submitted: Wednesday, May 02, 2012
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