LIFE
XXX
WE play at paste,Till qualified for pearl,Then drop the paste,And deem ourself a fool.The shapes, though, were similar.And our new handsLearned gem-tacticsPractising sands.
XXXI
I FOUND the phrase to every thoughtI ever had, but one;And that defies me,—as a handDid try to chalk the sun
To races nurtured in the dark;—How would your own begin?Can blaze be done in cochineal,Or noon in mazarin?
XXXII
HOPE is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,
[19]
