What is the cost of something beautiful,
Something divine,
Something immutable?
Paid in hours of arduous toil,
Paid in ransom,
In midnight oil.
Is there tithing enough to see
Pulchritude manifest itself so free
As starlight glinting across the sea,
Or in the candor of unending verse,
Over the massive white flowering trees,
Those triumphs worth ever more than a purse.
