Mirage
A POET once in dreaming fashioned
A woman to his fancy: Thus, he said,
Shall I find freedom from the tyranny
Of earth and dreary actuality.
The golden beams that radiate the skies
Between the clouds he caught, and spun her hair;
Of marble whiteness made her forehead wise,
And wrought her brows soft as the summer air;
For eyes he took two violets dim with dew
That veiled their glory; from a new-blown rose
Two velvet petals for her cheeks, and two
Red corals sought in distant seas he chose
To be the lips he longed for, and between
He set the wood-grown windflower's pearly tears;
Then from a shell he cut the inner sheen
And polished it and shaped it for her ears
To listen to the sea-throb of his sighs;
And in her glance he deftly wove fine strands
Of filmy starshine robbed from summer skies;
A lily's pointed petals were her hands
Tipped each with moonstones; last he made her heart,
Of snowflakes fashioned and forget-me-not,
And steeped it in red wine to bear its part:
Thus wrought his fancy—but he found her not.
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