Ii

Peace, this hid riot, Change, This revel of quick-cued mumming, This never truly being, This evermore becoming, This spinner’s wheel onfleeing Outside perception’s range.

1917.

“I WAS NOT HE” (SONG)

I WAS not he—the man Who used to pilgrim to your gate, At whose smart step you grew elate, And rosed, as maidens can, For a brief span.

It was not I who sang Beside the keys you touched so true With note-bent eyes, as if with you It counted not whence sprang The voice that rang . . .

Yet though my destiny It was to miss your early sweet, You still, when turned to you my feet, Had sweet enough to be A prize for me!