Phrase upon phrase, till the refrain
Resolves into the tick and tock
Of seconds scissored by the clock.
He thinks he has composed his dream
Of love upon as slight a theme,
And all the arduous obscure
Perfections of his overture,
Unravelled part from varied part,
Were but the drumming of her heart.
But still the clacking clockwork spins
Music of marvellous violins.
(6)
Beauty is that Medusa's head
Which men go armed to seek and sever:
It is most deadly when most dead,
And dead will stare and sting forever—
Beauty is that Medusa's head.
