There is a sword, a fatal blade,
Unthwarted, subtle as the air,
And I could meet it unafraid
If I might only meet it fair.
Yet how I wonder why the Smith
Who wrought that steel of subtle grain
Should also be contented with
So blunt and mean a thing as pain.
The stars and fire-flies dance in rings.
The fire-flies set my heart alight,
Like fingers, writing magic things
In flame, upon the wall of night.
There is high meaning in the skies—
(The stars and fire-flies—high and low—)
And all the spangled world is wise
With knowledge that I almost know.
To-morrow I will don my cloak
Of opal-grey, and I will stand
Where the palm-shadows stride like smoke
Across the dazzle of the sand.
To-morrow I will throw this blind
Blind whiteness from my soul away,
And pluck this blackness from my mind,
And only leave the medium—grey.
To-morrow I will cry for gains
Upon the blue and brazen sky.
The precious venom in my veins
To-morrow will be parched and dry.
To-morrow it shall be my goal
To throw myself away from me,
To lose the outline of my soul
Against the greyness of the sea.