IDEAL by WILLIAM FOSTER ELLIOT

I saw three women. One was white and tall,
Shaped for child-bearing, calm and mother-eyed,
With slow, rich limbs and bosom like the fall
Of clouds upon a winter mountain-side.
And one was golden, with such childlike breast
As young Spring turns from hilltops to the sea,
With tremulous flanks, and feet that could not rest,
Unused to flesh and struggling to be free.
While of the third the only certain form
Was one like mist, reshaped to each embrace
Of memory that found her body warm
With hints of earlier trysts and ancient grace.
This third I sought, and found a voice that wept
In darkness where the others smiled and slept.

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