The Artificer

I FEEL that your neglect has flayed my soul And left it a sore, bleeding, pulsing whole! I feel there is hot fire in pain, To boil the iron-pot that is my brain!

All my experience, all my thoughts and dreams. Bubble together, and the mixture steams; In lovely shapes the bluey vapours rise. Angels and kindly goddesses console my eyes.

Into the boiling pot I plunge my spoon. And of hot misery receive my boon. For from the viscid liquor make I shapes. Fairies and goblins, little goats and apes.

Many-hued jewels, gem-like flowers. Bright beads to count kind prayers and happy hours; Once from the pot a crystal sphere I wrought, It was a new, clear, and quite splendid thought.