He's not alone an artist weak and white,
O'erbending scented paper toying there
With languid fancies, fashioned deft and fair,
Mere sops to time between the day and night.
He is a poor torn soul who sees aright
How far he fails of living out the rare
Night-visions God vouchsafes along the air,
Until the pain burns hot, beyond his might.
The heart-beat of the universal will
He hears, and, spite of blindness and disproof,
Can sense amidst the jar a singing fine.
Grief-smitten that his lyre should lack the sk**
To speak it plain, he plays in paths aloof,
And knows the trend is starward, life divine.