John Addington Symonds - The Vanishing Point lyrics

There are who, when the bat on wing transverse Skims the swart surface of some neighbouring mere, Catch that thin cry too fine for common ear: Thus the last joy-note of the universe Is borne to those few listners who immerse Their intellectual hearing in no clear Paean, but pierce it with the thin-edged spear Of utmost beauty which contains a curse. Dead on their sense fall marches hymeneal, Triumphal odes, hymns, symphonies sonorous; They crave one shrill vibration, tense, ideal, Transcending and surpa**ing the world's chorus; Keen, fine, ethereal, exquisitely real, Intangible as star's light quivering o'er us.