POEM

Books and a coloured skein of thoughts were mine;

And magic words lay ripening in my soul

Till their much-whispered music turned a wine

Whose subtlest power was all in my control.

These things were mine, and they were real for me

As lips and darling eyes and a warm breast:

For I could love a phrase, a melody,

Like a fair woman, worshipped and possessed.

I scorned all fire that outward of the eyes

Could kindle passion; scorned, yet was afraid;

Feared, and yet envied those more deeply wise

Who saw the bright earth beckon and obeyed.

But a time came when, turning full of hate

And weariness from my remembered themes,

I wished my poet's pipe could modulate

Beauty more palpable than words and dreams.

All loveliness with which an act informs

The dim uncertain chaos of desire

Is mine to-day; it touches me, it warms

Body and spirit with its outward fire.

I am mine no more: I have become a part

Of that great earth that draws a breath and stirs

To meet the spring. But I could wish my heart

Were still a winter of frosty gossamers.