Give me one little folly that is mine!Why should I be the captive of your art—A flawless image prisoned in a shrine,Far from the wanton tarnish of the heart,
You do not know the turmoil and the tanglesThe tugging mysteries that living brings;Your pure perfection stretches till it stranglesThe stumbling loveliness of little things.
Could I but break your dream and make you seeA cloudy morning and a starless night,Some splinters of a broken ecstasyThe many fragments that are called delight.
But your hard dream has conquered even fate!I shall for ever sit upon my throneRemoved from hope or doubt, from love or hate—A ghost of beauty that you call your own.
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