Brussels, 1919


XV

Piero di Cosimo,
Your unicorns and afterglow,
Your black leaves cut against the sky,
Black crosses where the young gods die,
Black horizons where the sea
And clouds contend perpetually,
And hanging low,
The menace of the night:--

They called you madman. Were they right,
Piero di Cosimo?

Pomfret, 1919


XVI

I would know what can not be known;
I would reach beyond my sphere,
And question the stars in their courses,
And the dead of many a year.
I would tame the infinite forces
That bend me down like the grain,
Peace would I give to the fields where the young men died,