THE Etcher must pour paraffin of dreams: Of purple mornings, and of opal sky, Of glamorous hills, and ropes of white-flamed streams Across the glass of years, and let it dry. The Etcher must have eager, restless hands And eyes that know the perfect curve and line. . . . I am an etcher, for the dawn-cooled sands Curved gently by a god, a rigid pine Are in my soul, I know the shade and light Of faces that I love beyond all thought. I know the curve of breast, the line of white That shapes a forehead. Restlessly I wrought An etching, and the acid of despair Gnawed on the glass and left a great love there. |