Furnley Maurice

The Ghost

Gird you no more at poets. They have sought
To utter the unutterable joy.
The gesture breaks the dream; acts ruin thought,
Whose color is debased with gross alloy.

A leaping horse, a sea-pool clear and cold,
Night or her stars - these have not found a name.
The rose is barbarous yet: and who has told
The frightful grandeur of a leaping flame?

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