SOME SHADOWS OF A THOUGHT

                        Now, like the silence at the heart of song,
                        Art mars to make, hope’s bow on life’s rain-fall;
                        A gilly-flower, she tops the garden-wall
                        And shames the scare-crow weeds which, stunted, throng
                        In peace their paddock; she, the seed of wrong,
                        Maketh life’s beauty’s presence keen; a rope
                        Of seven sinful withes, she wards the slope
                        Which pilgrims to perfection climb along.

                        Her fittest likeness is a looking-glass :
                        To seize on beauty as life’s pageants pass
                        She coldly, with a crystal ease, is skilled.
                        She deigns nor toil nor in the work-shed swelt
                        And strain ; yet must gross metals glow and melt
                        Before her latest freak of form be filled.