As one that would draw through the node of things, Back sweeping to the vortex of the cone, Cloistered about with memories, alone In chaos, while the waiting silence sings: Obliviate of cycles' wanderings I was an atom on creation's throne And knew all nothing my unconquered own. God! Should I be the hand upon the strings?! But I was lonely as a lonely child. I cried amid the void and heard no cry, And then for utter loneliness, made I New thoughts as crescent images of _me_. And with them was my essence reconciled While fear went forth from mine eternity. On His Own Face in a Glass O strange face there in the glass! O ribald company, O saintly host, O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer? O ye myriad That strive and play and pass, Jest, challenge, counterlie? I? I? I? And ye? Histrion No man hath dared to write this thing as yet, And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great At times pass through us, And we are melted into them, and are not Save reflexions of their souls. Thus am I Dante for a space and am One François Villon, ballad-lord and thief Or am such holy ones I may not write, Lest blasphemy be writ against my name; This for an instant and the flame is gone. 'Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere Translucent, molten gold, that is the "I" And into this some form projects itself: Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine; And as the clear space is not if a form's Imposed thereon, So cease we from all being for the time, And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on. The Eyes Rest Master, for we be a-weary, weary And would feel the fingers of the wind Upon these lids that lie over us Sodden and lead-heavy. Rest brother, for lo! the dawn is without! The yellow flame paleth And the wax runs low. Free us, for without be goodly colours, Green of the wood-moss and flower colours, And coolness beneath the trees. Free us, for we perish In this ever-flowing monotony Of ugly print marks, black Upon white parchment. Free us, for there is one Whose smile more availeth Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books: And we would look thereon. Defiance Ye blood-red spears-men of the dawn's array That drive my dusk-clad knights of dream away, Hold! For I will not yield. My moated soul shall dream in your despite A refuge for the vanquished hosts of night That _can_ not yield. Song Love thou thy dream All base love scorning, Love thou the wind And here take warning That dreams alone can truly be, For 'tis in dream I come to thee. Nel Biancheggiar