OF THESE FOUR THINGS
47
And when at last, struggling to utter
The cry of these three glories,
My pen shall cease to stutter across the page,—
Shall be no longer a futile stammering thing,
But a burning soul, articulate,—
Then I shall sing! Oh, then I shall sing
Of the glorious whole of these wild splendors!
Oh, then I shall sing of the eyes,
Of the dusky eyes of a Woman.
The cry of these three glories,
My pen shall cease to stutter across the page,—
Shall be no longer a futile stammering thing,
But a burning soul, articulate,—
Then I shall sing! Oh, then I shall sing
Of the glorious whole of these wild splendors!
Oh, then I shall sing of the eyes,
Of the dusky eyes of a Woman.
