Beauty went unsung
For a billion years,
Then a billion more,
And finally,
Before the chasm of the ages
Was at last crossed,
Before adoring eyes
Ever fell upon a work of art,
Before endeavoring hands
Ever sought to bring life
To stone,
Another billion cycles
Of light and dark,
Chaos and order,
Frigid winter, and glorious spring,
Hazy summer and hallowed autumn,
Went by,
All of history on this planet
Condensed into the first sentences
Of a book on the philosophy of the aesthetic
That you never read;
Beauty, in all her finery,
Weeping, at last,
As man enters the stage
In the final half
Of the last third,
To sing her praises,
To say,
In tones muted against the spectacular thunder
Of the cosmic noir,
That he had found her
In all of his sunrises,
That he had spotted her
In the flowers growing wild,
That he had seen her
Bathing in the Garden,
That he had spied her
In golden, soaring Song,
That he had known her
In the poetry of ages,
And that he had found her
Pure, and entire,
Within all that was
And all that will ever be.