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Show ART , By. George Sterling. She .has her Station past our yCan An instant ue'en, then lost again; She gives, unbought by toll or tears, Her mercy and her old disdain. To divers men, In many lands, Her voice has been the volco of Him Whose house Is builded not with hands, Who has her of the seraphim. Tho perfect light that is her day, Comes to us broken and dls-pearled, dls-pearled, ', An alien gleam, a shadowed ray Whose homo Is not in any world. jg. Tho saints have eaten of her food, I jjfr' The Caesars held her word in fear, h ' A poison in tho human blood, II An angel's clarion, high and clear. ' In dreams tho beauty of her faco fl Affirms its ancient sorcery, lr Tho leman of a lost embrace, J A virgin colder than tho sea. i Not always exquisite and far, )'( ? Sho holds a mystical abodo; ; She walks tho rainbow and tho star, ' Then saunters on a common road. J Untaught, unpurchasablo, shy. Fugitive, wayward, wlso In scorn, Sho waits a llttlo, soon to fly ' Our thankless gazo, our lands for- 1 lorn. i This Is that angol men call Art, I1 Whose faco tho haunted years al low, ' Romance the music nt her heart, And truth tho splendor on her brow. |