Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust,
    Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire;
  Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust
    Would light us back to glory and desire,
  And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust;
    Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame. 
    Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame.

  Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould
    That lies on by-gone traffickings of state,
  Transformed a moment by that head of gold,
    Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate;
  To “write the Constitution!” ’twere a cold,
    Dusty and bloomless immortality,
    Without that last wild dying thought of thee.

  TO A BEAUTIFUL OLD LADY

  (To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hinton)

  Say not—­“She once was fair;” because the years
    Have changed her beauty to a holier thing,
  No girl hath such a lovely face as hers,
    That hoards the sweets of many a vanished spring,
  Stealing from Time what Time in vain would steal,
    Culling perfections as each came to flower,
  Bearing on each rare lineament the seal
    Of being exquisite from hour to hour.

  These eyes have dwelt with beauty night and morn,
    Guarding the soul within from every stain,
  No baseness since the first day she was born
    Behind those star-lit brows could access again,
  Bathed in the light that streamed from all things fair,
    Turning to spirit each delicate door of sense,
  And with all lovely shapes of earth and air
    Feeding her wisdom and her innocence.

  Life that, whate’er it gives, takes more away
    From those that all would take and little give,
  Enriched her treasury from day to day,
    Making each hour more wonderful to live;
  And touch by touch, with hands of unseen skill,
    Transformed the simple beauty of a girl,
  Finding it lovely, left it lovelier still,
    A mystic masterpiece of rose and pearl.

  Her grief and joy alike have turned to gold,
    And tears and laughter mingled to one end,
  With alchemy of living manifold: 
    If Life so wrought, shall Death be less a friend? 
  Nay, earth to heaven shall give the fairest face,
    Dimming the haughty beauties of the sky;
  Would I could see her softly take her place,
    Sweeping each splendour with her queenly eye!

  TO LUCY HINTON:  December 19, 1921

  O loveliest face, on which we look our last—­
  Not without hope we may again behold
  Somewhere, somehow, when we ourselves have passed
  Where, Lucy, you have gone, this face so dear,
  That gathered beauty every changing year,
  And made Youth dream of some day being old.

  Some knew the girl, and some the woman grown,
  And each was fair, but always ’twas your way
  To be more beautiful than yesterday,
  To win where others lose; and Time, the doom
  Of other faces, brought to yours new bloom. 
  Now, even from Death you snatch mysterious grace,
  This last perfection for your lovely face.