Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/266



is the voice that will not let me rest? I hear it speak. Where is the shore will gratify my quest, Show what I seek? Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice, With halting tongue; No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice Your groves among.

Whose is the loveliness I know is by, Yet cannot place? Is it perfection of the sea or sky, Or human face? Not yours, my pencil, to delineate The splendid smile! Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate That glows the while.

Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing On unknown ways? Whose are the lips that only part to sing Through all my days? Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes Or find that shore That will not let me rest, nor satisfies For evermore.