Yet how I wonder why the Smith

Who wrought that steel of subtle grain

Should also be contented with

So blunt and mean a thing as pain.

The stars and fire-flies dance in rings.

The fire-flies set my heart alight,

Like fingers, writing magic things

In flame, upon the wall of night.

There is high meaning in the skies—

(The stars and fire-flies—high and low—)

And all the spangled world is wise

With knowledge that I almost know.

To-morrow I will don my cloak

Of opal-grey, and I will stand

Where the palm-shadows stride like smoke

Across the dazzle of the sand.

To-morrow I will throw this blind

Blind whiteness from my soul away,

And pluck this blackness from my mind,

And only leave the medium—grey.

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