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.

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