Sitting on the top of the ’bus, I bite my pipe and look at the sky. Over my shoulder the smoke streams out And my life with it. “Conservation of energy,” you say. But I burn, I tell you, I burn; And the smoke of me streams out In a vanishing skein of grey. Crash and bump ... my poor bruised body! I am a harp of twittering strings, An elegant instrument, but infinitely second-hand, And if I have not got phthisis it is only an accident. Droll phenomena! POINTS AND LINES. Instants in the quiet, small sharp stars, Pierce my spirit with a thrust whose speed Baffles even the grasp of time. Oh that I might reflect them As swiftly, as keenly as they shine. But I am a pool of waters, summer-still, And the stars are mirrored across me; Those stabbing points of the sky Turned to a thread of shaken silver, A long fine thread. PANIC. The eyes of the portraits on the wall Look at me, follow me, Stare incessantly: I take it their glance means nothing at all? --Clearly, oh clearly! Nothing at all.... Out in the gardens by the lake The sleeping peacocks suddenly wake; Out in the gardens, moonlit and forlorn, Each of them sounds his mournful horn: Shrill peals that waver and crack and break. What can have made the peacocks wake? STANZAS. Thought is an unseen net wherein our mind Is taken and vainly struggles to be free: Words, that should loose our spirit, do but bind New fetters on our hoped-for liberty: And action bears us onward like a stream Past fabulous shores, scarce seen in our swift course; Glorious--and yet its headlong currents seem But backwaters of some diviner force. There are slow curves, more subtle far than thought, That stoop to carry the grace of a girl’s breast; And hanging flowers, so exquisitely wrought In airy metal, that they seem possessed Of souls; and there are distant hills that lift The shoulder of a god towards the light; And arrowy trees, sudden and sharp and swift, Piercing the spirit deeply with delight. Would I might make these miracles my own! Like a pure angel, thinking colour and form; Hardening to rage in a flame of chiselled stone; Spilling my love like sunlight, golden and warm On noonday flowers; speaking the song of birds Among the branches; whispering the fall of rain; Beyond all thought, past action and past words, I would live in beauty, free from self and pain. 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.