The Unhurried Thought

When the painter takes his brush,
When the heart its colours knows
And then the sounds begin to weave
The harmonies of their intent,
When the pallid mother-clay
Is fastened on the potter's wheel
And the poet of the world
Finds his golden, motiveless phrase,—
These signs of craft and worldly skill,—
The tiny pursing of the lips,
The small, created pause in choice,—
Make all things at home again,
At home, and in final safety
And in earned joy.