I have sought all the colors in the prism;
I have brought them home again with me,
And feebly give them out upon the earth.
Sometimes I have sung
With a long sad cry in my throat
Or with a murmuring as of curiously wrought shells.
Sometimes I have danced
With pink clouds, in a dense forest,
Over the moist brown moss,
And curved my white body in long lines,
Like a white reed swaying in a slight wind;
And in growing tired of sweet things,
Have sunk upon the earth
And in a passion gathered in my hands
Warm, red clay, and hued a woman
With a haunted face, or a panther
Creeping close to the ground.
And when the sun set, I painted,
Deliberately choosing my colors and fusing them,
Or I would splash heavily with paint,
Giving you a glimpse of subtle strength.
I would give, give, give of myself or go mad,
But all these efforts are futile and they rend me,
For through one medium only may I give, though poorly,
A rude pencil is ever ready to my hand,
And my thoughts are prisoned souls
That sob to be born in bodies.
Isobel Stone, "Creator".