Shapes of Clay

Beneath my window twilight made

Familiar mysteries of shade.

Faint voices from the darkening down

Were calling vaguely to the town.

Intent upon a low, far gleam

That burned upon the world's extreme,

I sat, with short reprieve from grief,

And turned the volume, leaf by leaf,

Wherein a hand, long dead, had wrought

A million miracles of thought.

My fingers carelessly unclung

The lettered pages, and among

Them wandered witless, nor divined

The wealth in which, poor fools, they mined.

The soul that should have led their quest

Was dreaming in the level west,

Where a tall tower, stark and still,

Uplifted on a distant hill,

Stood lone and passionless to claim

Its guardian star's returning flame.

I know not how my dream was broke,

But suddenly my spirit woke

Filled with a foolish fear to look

Upon the hand that clove the book,

Significantly pointing; next

I bent attentive to the text,

And read—and as I read grew old—

The mindless words: "Poor Tom's a-cold!"

Ah me! to what a subtle touch

The brimming cup resigns its clutch

Upon the wine. Dear God, is 't writ

That hearts their overburden bear

Of bitterness though thou permit

The pranks of Chance, alurk in nooks,

And striking coward blows from books,

And dead hands reaching everywhere?