O impotence!
that I can never frame
In fitting language all the thoughts that surge
And tumble, tike the cascade of a fall,
Within my mind. Always the same old urge—
To capture Beauty in a verse, a phrase,
A breathing word! Poets and painters—fools!
Ye but entomb the body in your cage;
The spirit snaps the shackles of the brush
And stifles in the confines of the page.

—C.