THE MOUNTAIN PINE
Around me in the void of night there moves
The struggle of uncreate worlds to be,
The stars are not the stars, I hear afar
The planets’ minstrelsy.
For me there is no time, no space, no depth,
No love, no hate, no passionate despair.
I face my destiny—to what has been
And will be, I am heir.
The vulture sails below me, and across
Immeasurable spaces tempests roll.
Decay cannot unmake me, I am part
Of an eternal whole.
THE MASTER HAND
WRITTEN BEFORE ANDREA DEL SARTO’S
PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF
The master hand lifted the brush, and lo,
Colour and light took form at his command,
When Death struck down with an immortal blow
The master hand.
A heap of clay becomes a heap of sand,
The mad, tumultuous centuries bestow
Laurel and dust to sweeten Death’s demand.
Dust chills desire, and laurel lieth low,
But art’s eternal hills triumphant stand—
Whose summits feel in one long afterglow
The master hand.