The spoil of thought?" "These latest words of yours," She answered musingly, "impress me much; And yet, I think I see where they will lead, Or, rather, fail to lead. Your fantasy Is beautiful but vague. The Possible Is a vast ocean, from which one poor soul, With its slight oars, can float but flimsy freight; Yet I would help your courage, for I see Where your sole motive lies. Go on, and prove Whether your scheme or mine holds more of good; And take my blessing with you." Then she rose, And kissed my forehead. Looking in her face, By the sharp light that touched her, I was thrilled By her flushed cheeks and strangely lustrous eyes. She spoke not; but I heard the sigh she breathed-- The long-drawn, weary sigh--as she retired; And then the Possible, which had inspired So wondrously my hope, drooped low around, And filled me with foreboding. Had her life Been chilled by my neglect? Was it on wane? Could she be lost to me? Oh! then I felt, As I had never felt before, how mean Beside one true affection is the best Of all earth's prizes, and how little worth The world would be without her love--herself! But sleep refreshed her, and next morn she sat At our bright board, in her accustomed place; And sunlight was not sweeter than her smile, Or cheerfuller. My quick fears died away; And though I saw that she had lost the fire Of her young life, I comforted myself With thinking that it was the same with me-- The sure result of years. My time I gave To my new passion, rioting at large In the fresh realm of fancy and of thought To which the passion bore me, and from which I strove to gather for embodiment Material of art. The more I dreamed, The broader grew my dream. The further on My footsteps pushed, the brighter grew the light; Till, half in terror, half in reverence, I learned that I had broached the Infinite! I had not thought my Possible could bear Such name as this, or wear such attribute; And shrank befitting distance from the front Of awful secrets, hid in awful flame, That scorched and scared me. So, more humble grown, And less adventurous, I chose, at last, My theme and vehicle of song, and wrote. My faculties, grown strong and keen by use, Bent to their task with earnest faithfulness, And glowed with high endeavor. All of power I had within me flowed into my hand; And learning, language--all my life's resource-- Lay close around my enterprise, and poured Their hoarded wealth of imagery and words Faster than I could use it. For long weeks, My ardent labor crowded all my days, Invaded sleep, and haunted e'en my dreams: And then the work was done.