The Poet

Michael Field

 

  

Within his eyes are hung lamps of the sanctuary:

A wind, from whence none knows, can set in sway

And spill their light by fits; but yet their ray

Returns, deep-boled, to its obscurity.

 

The world as from a dullard turns annoyed

To stir the days with show or deeds or voices;

But if one spies him justly one rejoices,

With silence that the careful lips avoid.

 

He is a plan, a work of some strange passion

Life has conceived apart from Time's harsh drill,

A thing it hides and cherishes to fashion.

 

At odd bright moments to its secret will:

Holy and foolish, ever set apart,

He waits the leisure of his god's free heart.