The sun was black with judgment, and the moon
Blood: but between
I saw a man stand, saying: ‘To me at least
The grass is green.
’There was no star that I forgot to fear
With love and wonder.
The birds have loved me’; but no answer came —
Only the thunder.
. . . . . . .
Once more the man stood, saying: ‘A cottage door,
Wherethrough I gazed
That instant as I turned —yea, I am vile;
Yet my eyes blazed.
’For I had weighed the mountains in a balance,
And the skies in a scale,
I come to sell the stars —old lamps for new —
Old stars for sale.'
Then a calm voice fell all the thunder through,
A tone less rough:
‘Thou hast begun to love one of my works