Beauty

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” – Keats

Her gentle song is a feast for
that wisp of heart that floats free
in denial, perhaps defiance,
of mortality, that cannot help
but fall head over heals
when met with mystery,
that always seeks out
not the tidbits of history –
that’s not what Keats meant,
for he must have known
that facts can be ugly and shameful –
but real Truth, that moment
when you turn a corner
and come face to face
with giddy sunlight
skipping along water’s surface
as the river summersaults
over the bed of rocks
and time stops for a heartbeat,
world’s ugliness suddenly redeemed,
doctor’s report not quite as terrifying,
and for that brief instant
there can be no doubt that some power
greater than the sum of us all –
dare we call it Love? –
serenades you and you alone,
implores that you carry Truth with you,
promises that she is always with you
even in the ugliness, if you but look.

©2025 Kenneth W. Arthur