Three verses had my poem. Beauty fain
Had found its fair abiding in the strain,
And sung itself that men might hear and see.
Yet of that beauty one verse utters nought:
In one, discordance broke the tenderest thought.
Well, one is perfect still. So let it be.
Had I been greater I had gained the three.
Earth glories three beguiled me on a day
Their shadowing on my canvas crude to lay.
The pictured mountains paled of glory stand:
The murmuring waves hang leaden lifeless there
Only my sky is excellently fair.
Well, let it be so. Was it for my hand
To paint perfection, sea and sky and land?
Fair blessings wait upon our earthly race
And passion of completeness lights her face
Who walks in benedictions royally.
But if just shaping-out of life below
Make it my fortune less than all to know,
What failure? When did Fate and I agree
That every earthly good should visit me?