OFTEN I sit and spend my hour, Linking my dreams from heart to brain, And as the child joins flower to flower, Then breaks and joins them on again, Casting the bright ones in disgrace, And weaving pale ones in their stead, Changing the honors and the place Of white and scarlet, blue and red; And finding after all his pains Of sorting and selecting dyes, No single chain of all the chains The fond caprice that satisfies; So I from all things bright and brave, Select what brightest, bravest seems, And, with the utmost skill I have, Contrive the fashion of my dreams. Sometimes ambitious thoughts abound, And then I draw my pattern bold, And have my shuttle only wound With silken threads or threads of gold. Sometimes my heart reproaches me, And mesh from cunning mesh I pull, And weave in sad humility With flaxen threads or threads of wool. For here the hue too brightly gleams, And there the grain too dark is cast, And so no dream of all my dreams Is ever finished, first, or last. And looking back upon my past Thronged with so many a wasted hour, I think that I should fear to cast My fortunes if I had the power. And think that he is mainly wise, Who takes what comes of good or ill, Trusting that wisdom underlies And worketh in the end -- His will. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DELICACIES by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ECHOES: 7 by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY PARADISE LOST: BOOK 1 by JOHN MILTON TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD. THE AUTHOR THAN FORTY by MATTHEW PRIOR THE WASTE PLACES by JAMES STEPHENS UNDERWOODS: BOOK 1: 21. REQUIEM by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON |