 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
101
GOLD OF MIDAS.
The poet is the alchymist of thought—
The Midas whose too sovereign touch, of old,
Transmuted every trifle into gold,
And gilt the very clay the potter wrought.
The Midas whose too sovereign touch, of old,
Transmuted every trifle into gold,
And gilt the very clay the potter wrought.
No common mountain torrent he has sought
And bathed his soul in, but has straightway roll'd
Auriferous sands; no maze where he has stroll'd,
But gleams with ponderous ingots rich as aught
And bathed his soul in, but has straightway roll'd
Auriferous sands; no maze where he has stroll'd,
But gleams with ponderous ingots rich as aught
That Midas ever gilt.—But woe, thrice woe,
If, locked in his own gold, he should forget,
Like that same Midas, how and why we live:
If, locked in his own gold, he should forget,
Like that same Midas, how and why we live:
He craved a Universe of gold; and lo,
The bread became a nugget as he ate,
And filled his mouth with all that gold can give.
The bread became a nugget as he ate,
And filled his mouth with all that gold can give.
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |