The hills of little Cornwall Themselves are dreams. The mind lies down among them, Even by day, and snores, Snug in the perilous knowledge That nothing more inward pleasing, More like itself, Sleeps anywhere beyond them Even by night In the great land it cares two pins about, Possibly; not more. The mind, eager for caresses, Lies down at its own risk in Cornwall; Whose hills, Whose cunning streams, Whose mazes where a thought, Doubling upon itself, Considers the way, lazily, well lost, Indulge it to the nick of death-- Not quite, for where it curls it still can feel, Like feathers, Like affectionate mouse whiskers, The flattery, the trap.
The Last Word
You looked inside
For what the perishable flesh might hide;
And now you say that inner part
Will represent her in my heart.
I tell you no.
Philosopher, I say I loved her so
I did not dig within—content
When seasons came, when seasons went.
When she would frown,
You think I set the meaning of it down?
The meaning goes; but something stays
I shall have with me all my days—
Her forehead bare
One instant, then blown over by her hair;
A sudden turn; her hand at rest
Upon a window toward the west. . . .