Ah, that Time could touch a form That could show what Homer’s age Bred to be a hero’s wage. “Were not all her life but storm, Would not painters paint a form Of such noble lines” I said. “Such a delicate high head, So much sternness and such charm, Till they had changed us to like strength?” Ah, but peace that comes at length, Came when Time had touched her form.

AGAINST UNWORTHY PRAISE

O heart, be at peace, because Nor knave nor dolt can break What’s not for their applause, Being for a woman’s sake. Enough if the work has seemed, So did she your strength renew, A dream that a lion had dreamed Till the wilderness cried aloud, A secret between you two, Between the proud and the proud. What, still you would have their praise! But here’s a haughtier text, The labyrinth of her days That her own strangeness perplexed; And how what her dreaming gave Earned slander, ingratitude, From self-same dolt and knave; Aye, and worse wrong than these. Yet she, singing upon her road, Half lion, half child, is at peace.

THE FASCINATION OF WHAT’S DIFFICULT

The fascination of what’s difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart. There’s something ails our colt That must, as if it had not holy blood, Nor on an Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud, Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays That have to be set up in fifty ways, On the day’s war with every knave and dolt, Theatre business, management of men. I swear before the dawn comes round again I’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

A DRINKING SONG

Wine comes in at the mouth And love comes in at the eye; That’s all we shall know for truth Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh.