Books And A Coloured Skein Of Thoughts Were Mine; And Magic Words Lay Ripening In My Soul Till Their Much-Whispered Music Turned A Wine Whose Subtlest Power Was All In My Control. These Things Were Mine, And They Were Real For Me As Lips And Darling Eyes And A Warm Breast: For I Could Love A Phrase, A Melody, Like A Fair Woman, Worshipped And Possessed. I Scorned All Fire That Outward Of The Eyes Could Kindle Passion; Scorned, Yet Was Afraid; Feared, And Yet Envied Those More Deeply Wise Who Saw The Bright Earth Beckon And Obeyed. But A Time Came When, Turning Full Of Hate And Weariness From My Remembered Themes, I Wished My Poet'S Pipe Could Modulate Beauty More Palpable Than Words And Dreams. All Loveliness With Which An Act Informs The Dim Uncertain Chaos Of Desire Is Mine To-Day; It Touches Me, It Warms Body And Spirit With Its Outward Fire. I Am Mine No More: I Have Become A Part Of That Great Earth That Draws A Breath And Stirs To Meet The Spring. But I Could Wish My Heart Were Still A Winter Of Frosty Gossamers.