Classic Poem

The paper was pale,
But the untold phase
Hath told real its love
Of its mysterious graze.

Heavy tints, light scrawls,
Inner space left—
The yards, boats, rivers,
And castles of craft;

The portraits were thine
Of the phantom pound,
That the etching therein
Almost moved from its mound.

The heavens were paper
And clouds its grain,
As if its whiteness stirred
In the soul of an insane.

They were left on the walls,
Calling their eyes
That built them to crumble,
To nestle from ties.