by Patience Worth
Oh, what is my fancy most like unto?
At times, like a little boat, which floats
Some willowed stream, soft in shades,
And graceful curvings, gliding noiselessly,
Quietly about amid the scenes on-coming;
Delighting me in surprising episodes,
Mingling amid new harmonies,
Making itself one with strange hours,
And new lights and shadows;
Carrying me away, I who, weary,
Wait the loosing of my enchaining hours.
Idly, idly then would I lie
Watching the waters part,
And the tranquillity of that stream.
Then, again, is it like unto an arrow with
A sharp barb, splitting through the airs,
With wild desire to tear asunder some prey.
then am I consumed with the fire of conquest,
And my hours are tumultuous;
There is no quietude, for I am the bow,
Which trembles from the arrow's piercing flight.
Yet again is it like a garland, a whit of vine,
That clings, running along the dusty roadway,
Where the cool shadows linger not,
Seeking them, or with that ache of yearning,
Encircling some ungainly object
With amorous leisure. Then am I melancholy
And filled with distrust, for in the yearning
I am not satisfied.
Yet again is my fancy steadfast as
The torch of fire which flames each morning's brow,
Burning surely, consuming my doubt,
And with sureness making me leap
To the task of utterance! Then am I no part
Of my fancy, for my fancy hath become me!
And I am but one perfect chord
Of the lay of Eternity.
Last updated January 14, 2019