No trace is left upon the vulgar mind

No trace is left upon the vulgar mind
By shapes which form upon the poet's thought
In instant symmetry: all eyes are blind
Save his, for ends of lower vision wrought;
Think'st thou, if Nature wore to every gaze
Her noble beauty and commanding power,
Could harsh and ugly doubt withstand the blaze
Or front her Sinai presence for an hour?
The seal of Truth is beauty — when the eye
Sees not the token, can the mission move?
The brow is veiled that should attach the tie
And lend the magic to the voice of Love:
What wonder then that doubt is ever nigh
Urging such spirits on to mock and to deny?