The
Trailing
Gown
Of
Perfection
Sweeps
Dust
To
And
Fro
As
Round
About
The
Halls
I go.
My
Hands
Are
Too
Weak
To
Seize
The
Thing
I seek,
My
Mind
Too
Slow
To
Take
Me
Where
I want
To
Go.
Making
Is
Finding,
Taking,
And
Partly
Breaking.
Any
Art
Is
Ancient
And
New,
And
In
My
Way,
What
I try
To
Do.
Round
And
Round
The
Hall
I go,
Casting
A
Tattered
Shadow
On
The
Wall.