Here all is beautiful: the trees, the air, The earth, and sky one shining style share. No bush would dare bring forth a blemished rose, And even mud and dirt are neat and fair. Each one who lives within own beauty rare: Each stance and motion is a perfect pose. Though age is theirs, no marks of time they bear, Nor bend they with the weight of mortal care. In edifices brilliant and insane, They feast; and councils hold; and feast again. For all their perfect fare is empty light — A pale token of the life they feign. Taste not their wine and fruit, or else remain, Forever severed from the true and plain.