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Updated: June 14, 2025
Her colour is a soft dusky brown, under which you can see the blood warming her dimpling cheeks. Her figure is perfection's self, ripe and round and full, while every movement shows some new grace and more seductive curve.
Her face, bloom, eyes, teeth, hair, and person are all perfection's self, and Nature broke the mould when she made this paragon, for I know none like her." 'Tis true, but 'tis so awkward with these folk that can't be presented nor can't meet this one nor that. Still, I have had her much to my routs and drums, where 'tis such an olla podrida that it matters not who comes.
O'er your head to-day Hovers perfection's crown in pride, With you the earliest plant Spring had, Soul-forming Nature first began; With you, the harvest-chaplet glad, Perfected Nature ends her plan. The art creative, that all-modestly arose From clay and stone, with silent triumph throws Its arms around the spirit's vast domain.
We who are lost in it, working or looking on, can neither tell what we are doing, nor where standing; but we cannot help observing, that, just as in the Greek Renaissance, worn-out Pagan orthodoxy was penetrated by new philosophy; just as in the Italian Renaissance, Pagan philosophy, reasserting itself, fertilised again an already too inbred Christian creed; so now Orthodoxy fertilised by Science is producing a fresh and fuller conception of life a, love of Perfection, not for hope of reward, not for fear of punishment, but for Perfection's sake.
But the younger sure the Lord was well pleased the day he made her face, for't was perfection's self, Her hair was a dark brown veined with gold, and her eyes like purple violets with the rain on them; and when she closed her long lashes 'twas like a cloud over the stars; and her mouth, and the soft smile, and the dimple that dipped when she laughed a man would stand all day to watch her and not think long.
We who are lost in it, working or looking on, can neither tell what we are doing, nor where standing; but we cannot help observing, that, just as in the Greek Renaissance, worn-out Pagan orthodoxy was penetrated by new philosophy; just as in the Italian Renaissance, Pagan philosophy, reasserting itself, fertilised again an already too inbred Christian creed; so now Orthodoxy fertilised by Science is producing a fresh and fuller conception of life a love of Perfection, not for hope of reward, not for fear of punishment, but for Perfection's sake.
In music, sculpture, painting; in fiction and drama; in dancing; in criticism itself, if criticism be an Art. Yes, we are reaching out to a new faith not yet crystallised, to a new Art not yet perfected; the forms still to find-the flowers still to fashion! And how has it come, this slowly growing faith in Perfection for Perfection's sake?
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