THAT weaver of words, the poet who
First named this sullen sea the blue,
And left off painting there, he knew
How rash a man would be to try
Precise defining of such a dye
As lurks within this colored spume.
And for retelling little room
He willed to singers then unborn
But destined later years, at morn,
High noon, twilight, or night to view
This Protean sheet, and anguish through
The mind to paint its wayward hue.
Not Helen’s eyes, no vaunted stains
That shone in Cressid’s lacy veins,
Not those proud fans the peacocks spread,
No sky that ever arched its head
Above a wonder-stricken two
Aghast at love, wore such a hue.
Only the Hand that never erred
Bent on beauty, creation-spurred,
Could mix and mingle such a dye,
Nor leave its like in earth or sky.
That sire of singers, the poet who
First named this sullen sea the blue
And left off painting there, he knew!
July 15, 1926