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.