Beauty Must Be Found

Beauty must be found, she is not dead

In the violent upheavals of our age.

Without her face to guide, her hand to lead

Our art is a scrawl on a smudged and tattered page,

Our music not more than a discordant din,

And poems lost in barren fields of prose,

The human soul dressed in a garb of sin.

Where now the exquisite language of the rose,

The melodies that set the spirit free,

An architecture founded upon love,

A poetry uplifting by its grace

The darkened mind, the hardened heart to tears.