I watch like a cat that waits to mangle A breathless rat in an alley nook. And a little figure steps into the angle Made by the folding mirrors. Look! His thin legs wobble, bend and dangle Like radish roots. He takes the crook Out of his arms and raises them up, As if in panic, or supplication. He bends and peers, whines like a pup, Walks to and fro in his desperation, Pinches his arms and beats his breast; Runs quivering fingers between his hair, Wavers for weariness, sighs for rest, Looks up to the planet that seems to bear The silver chain like a brad in the wall. Upsprings, searches the mirrors again; Sees for the first the prodigal Waste of stars in the black inane. Stamps with his feet upon the void He stands on, paces on, why, he wonders Is he upborned like an asteroid? Hark! The limitless blackness thunders: The Infinite growls, he whirls and shivers, Runs to cover the mirrors to climb. They yield like the waters of phantom rivers. He acts like a soul new born that quivers Before the mirrors of Space and Time. * * * * * Now what's to do? He must fill in. This emptiness with horror is shod. When did this pageant of things begin? Somewhere hiding there is a God. Some one drove that planet nail Into the blue wall; some one hung The silver chain. And what is the tale Of the mirrors here in the blackness swung? The soul is naked, weak and alone, And sees its nakedness in the glass. It must create from wood and stone, Wire and reeds, color and brass. It must create though it be but a mime, Make a reality all its own Before the mirror of white called Time, Before the mirror of blue called Space. Clasp the vastness between their folds, Find laws, raise altars, dream of a face-- Make that real which the hope beholds. * * * * * Our terrored manikin commences, Fattens his littleness with clothes. With crowns and miters puffs his senses, Crushes the grape to drown his woes. Fills full the mirrors with faces. Now They are dancing before them, age and youth, Laurels or thorns are bound on a brow. They hunt and slay for a thing called Truth. Dig for treasure, toil for riches, Struggle for place--it is well enough! Some lift their busts into chosen niches. All are hungry for peace and love. And only a few are blind, dispute The thing is a dream. If there be worth It lies in the strings of the lyre or lute, Sounds that never return to earth; Dreams to seeing eyes reflected, Caught from infinite realms afar. How could they be seen, or recollected Except for the Real--except for a Star? * * * * *