has awakened from the common dream,
But dissipation and despair?

HIC

And yet,
No one denies to Keats love of the world,
Remember his deliberate happiness.

ILLE

His art is happy, but who knows his mind?
I see a schoolboy, when I think of him,
With face and nose pressed to a sweetshop window,
For certainly he sank into his grave,
His senses and his heart unsatisfied;
And made--being poor, ailing and ignorant,
Shut out from all the luxury of the world,
The ill-bred son of a livery stable keeper--
Luxuriant song.

HIC

Why should you leave the lamp
Burning alone beside an open book,
And trace these characters upon the sand?
A style is found by sedentary toil,
And by the imitation of great masters.

ILLE

Because I seek an image, not a book;
Those men that in their writings are most wise
Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.
I call to the mysterious one who yet
Shall walk the wet sand by the water's edge,
And look most like me, being indeed my double,
And prove of all imaginable things
The most unlike, being my anti-self,
And, standing by these characters, disclose
All that I seek; and whisper it as though
He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud
Their momentary cries before it is dawn,
Would carry it away to blasphemous men.

_December_ 1915.

PER AMICA SILENTIA LUNAE

ANIMA HOMINIS

I

When I come home after meeting men who are strange to me, and sometimes
even after talking to women, I go over all I have said in gloom and
disappointment. Perhaps I have overstated everything from a desire to vex
or startle, from hostility that is but fear; or all my natural thoughts
have been drowned by an undisciplined sympathy. My fellow-diners have
hardly seemed of mixed humanity, and how should I keep my head among
images of good and evil, crude allegories.

But when I shut my door and light the candle, I invite a Marmorean Muse,
an art, where no thought or emotion has come to mind because another man
has thought or felt something different, for now there must be no
reaction, action only, and the world must move my heart but to the heart's
discovery of itself, and I begin to dream of eyelids that do not quiver
before the bayonet: all my thoughts have ease and joy, I am all virtue and
confidence. When I come to put in rhyme what I have found it will be a
hard toil, but for a m