The Missing Touch

Evening The west is a giant Tamburlaine

Bannering with a sky of blood the marching main.

The east, a hush of white world-witchery,

Is some unveiled supreme Zenocraté.

Yet one transfiguring touch both marvels miss,

Touch that would bring an infinite of bliss,

And in that one touch lost by sun sublime

And moon intense are all the tears of time!

Dream after mystic dream my painter heart

Mixes to erase the tiny shadow and smart

Spoiling earth's mightiest mood of loveliness.

Vain are all dreams—for O the little less

That kills perfection, blinds eternity,

Is the puny spot of self I grasp as me!

If I could feel no more a speck self-dense

But a point of vacant peace, Omnipotence

Would shine through and the finishing touch be given

To make, of earth's light, harmonies of heaven.

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