BIRTHRIGHT

HOW have I lost them, the old powers of dream? I used to float through life, as on expanse Quivering with light, slow-moving in a trance That bore me like a petal on its stream. Now, mouth and eyes are filled with dust of life. I, once a Seer, with my crystal globe, Know now no sphere, no irridescent robe; But bear me like a thief, with hand on knife. How have I lost them, the old powers of dream? I, who was so content with simple things— With one bright Autumn leaf, wood murmurings, The near-spun grass, or one star’s far off gleam? Now, I bear burdens with an ashen face. I count my gains, I clamor at my loss; I too have joined the tawdry pitch and toss, Who once walked trancéd, with illusioned pace. Since they are dead to me, dear dreaming powers— Dead, with their grail and magic, visions, wings— I shall distil the attar sorrow brings, And lave them in the sweet of their own hours. I shall their delicate bright figures lay Embalmed in gold, in so profound a rock, That no sharp-featured pain shall find a way To touch, and no smug knowledge come to mock.