I missed my track in pathless swamps of Time,     

       I chilled my hands against the cold-dead stars,     

       And lost my mind in unremembered Past,     

       Remote from God and out of human sight.     

       Lastly I took to painting down my thoughts,     

       And pictured for the King of Portugal     

       That fatal meadow in the Eden Land,     

       Where Man's first sweet and deadly sin was     

       wrought.     

       I, in this art, all others did excel;     

       Yet with success I was not satisfied     

       But hourly craved for the impossible—     

       To fashion men as real as flesh and blood.     

       To-day I'd toil with fire in my brain     

       And paint away the faults of yesterday,     

       And shadow forth the dreams of yesternight,     

       And so on through long months and weary years     

       Till, losing heart, I'd toss my brush aside     

       Leaving the thing unfinished as it was—     

       Adding this broken promise to my last.     

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