about art (his own);
The Demiurge's Laugh
about science.
Part III
Now Close the Windows
It is time to make an end of speaking.
A Line-storm Song
It is the autumnal mood with a difference.
October
He sees days slipping from him that were the best for what they
were.
My Butterfly
There are things that can never be the same.
Reluctance

Into My Own

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew--