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 goddess 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. 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. SCENES OF THE MIND