There is no curve of sea or sky,No turn of hill-top far defined,Without some fitness for the eye,Some meaning for the mind.
There is no checkered play of lightIn tree-tops by the sunshine wrought,Without its pleasure for our sight --Its beauty for our thought.
No time-hewn arch of rock is found,'Neath which some torrent's waters roll,but hath its import and its boundin measures of the soul.
All straight lines meeting, hint the wayHow like things best to union run:All circles type the Perfect -- yea,The all-enclosing One.
All fancied points produce, that flowFrom isle to isle or star to star, --All carry with them as they goThe Beautiful afar.
